Days of Bloody Thrones (Runeblade Saga Book 2)

by Matt Larkin

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “And I’m getting my fair share of the treasure. You were right … we got shit from Thule. So now I’ll make my fortune off Glaesisvellir, and we both go home wealthy.”

  “You should return to your king … or better yet, to your family.”

  Hervor tried to cross her arms over her chest, but her right one ached from the motion. She grunted.

  “Oh,” Starkad said. “You cannot even fight, can you?”

  She spat out into the darkness, then glared at him. “You damn well know I can. You can fight with both hands. I’ll learn too.”

  “I learned that from a man who lost his sword hand—but it took a long time to master.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe I’m a better student than you were.”

  He snorted at that. “Maybe. Eat the hare.” He also tore off a bit more.

  “Do you even know where we are bound?” Hervor asked.

  Starkad grunted, then dug through his satchel. He pulled out a dried animal skin, marked with charcoal drawings. A map, hastily drawn, and yet with surprising eye for detail.

  Hervor leaned in closer. A particular mountain, a slope of it indicated on the hide.

  Starkad tapped a finger on the map. “I believe we are here.” He indicated a mountain in the distance. “And that would make the upper slope there our destination.”

  Through the mist and darkness, Hervor could not make out a slope or much of aught else. Starkad clearly saw better than she did … or was so driven by his obsessions he thought he did. She licked the rabbit grease off her fingers, then washed it down with a skin of water. “You said you expect to find a dverg ruin, yes? But we draw nigh to Nidavellir where we might find actual godsdamned dvergar. What is it you seek down there that is worth such a risk?”

  He hesitated, then he shook his head. “Whatever we find … follow my lead.”

  HER BREATH CAME heavy as she ascended the slope. The path was steep, slick with ice, and treacherous, even with crampons fitted on her feet. Once again, traveling with Starkad, she found herself climbing a frozen mountain. She snorted at the thought, the sound muffled by the scarf wrapped around her face, and then stolen by the frozen wind that kept howling over her.

  That wind carried a light crop of snow with it, further obscuring vision and making the going even more tiring. Her right arm ached so she had taken to using a walking stick with the left. A chill sweat had built up under her clothes, and her mail felt frozen to her leathers.

  None of that hardship bothered her so much as Starkad refusing to explain what he hoped to claim here. Why hold back? Why now? From all she had seen, he became this closed-lipped only when confronted about his mysterious past. Never willing to confirm or deny the supposed connections between himself and Tyr or Odin.

  So did this dverg ruin somehow relate to that?

  “Hervor!” Starkad called out from up ahead. “I found it!” The man stood a dozen feet above her, looking at the mountainside, though she could not follow his gaze from this angle.

  At least they might soon be out of the wind and snow. She climbed farther, half pulling herself with the walking stick, before cresting a slight rise. Beyond that, the slope turned inward, into the mountain. A stone-pillared doorway framed a too-perfect tunnel descending into utter darkness beyond. Icicles descended from the top of the doorway like fangs from a serpent, and rime crusted everything, obscuring runes carved into the blocks forming the sides of the entrance.

  Starkad yanked the scarf from his own face and stepped up to the threshold, spilling torchlight into the tunnel. “Before the rise of the Old Kingdoms, dvergar dug thousands of miles of tunnels across Midgard. Beyond even, some claim, into Utgard, perhaps even breaching into their own realm of Nidafjoll.”

  Hervor pressed up close to him. The flickering light only served to enhance the too-thick shadows inside. She couldn’t make much out beyond about ten feet, if that. The path angled down almost as steeply as the slope outside had risen.

  “Are you certain the dvergar are gone from this place?” she asked.

  Starkad pulled a sword with his free hand. “I am certain of naught. We must assume the wretched vaettir still haunt these tunnels.” He handed her the torch, and she took it in her right hand.

  She had to hold it off to the side since raising it over her head was not an option. “So what will we find here?”

  “If Wudga is right … a manifestation of life … and death, entwined.”

  17

  Sword in hand, Starkad pressed on down the tunnel, Hervor a half step behind him. Much as he wanted to scout ahead and keep her safe, he could not see without the torch she bore, nor fight at his full potential without being able to draw the second blade. Vikar’s sword … a weight on his shoulder.

  A reminder of his failures.

  Of his crimes.

  Maybe one day, he’d replace his own sword with a runeblade. Vikar’s he must carry forever. Such was the least he might do for his brother’s memory.

  The passage wound, twisting round like a coiling serpent, burrowing into the mountain. Already, they’d had to change the torch once. Now, he found himself wondering how long this trek would stretch on. Had he brought enough torches? They could not afford to be left in darkness here.

  His ears popped as they continued downward.

  “I can’t say I much care for this place,” Hervor mumbled.

  Starkad knew he ought to feel the same … and yet. His pulse was thrumming here. Whatever was down here had rarely if ever been seen with human eyes. Such a thought was intoxicating. “You insisted on coming along.”

  Best then, if she did not spoil the moment with complaints. Whatever he should have felt about such delving, they served as a reminder—he yet lived.

  “You … enjoy this, don’t you?”

  Starkad flinched. How could she even tell that?

  Instead of answering, he pushed a few steps ahead of her, darkness be damned.

  The path finally leveled out, and along this route they walked, the only sound the soft plod of their boots, the crackle of the torch, the irregular pant of their breath.

  The tunnel ended in a rectangular chamber, with stone doors set into the center of each of the other walls. Three possible passages, each carved with runes and symbols he could not read. Even assuming they could open doors with no obvious handles or mechanisms.

  “What is this?” Hervor asked. She plodded closer to one of the walls, holding the torch over it.

  And all but forcing Starkad to follow unless he wanted to pause and light his own torch. He stalked up behind her and inspected the marking over her shoulder. The door’s seam was apparent, raised enough to make it obvious. The dvergar had not tried to conceal this passage, but how was he to …

  Hervor leaned the walking stick against the wall and ran her fingers over the stone, tracing the runes.

  Maybe this would take a while. Clucking his tongue, Starkad dug another torch from his pack and began to light it, even as Hervor moved on to inspect another wall.

  “There are other carvings beside the doors,” she said.

  “What?”

  She knelt off to the side of one of the sealed exits, examining something close to the floor.

  His own torch lit, Starkad joined her. The engraving had chipped and worn away over countless years but appeared to have once been a mural … depicting twisted, shrunken bodies that must represent dvergar. Standing above them, on either side, were large numbers of men and women. Humans?

  Starkad frowned.

  “What does it mean?” Hervor asked.

  “I’m not certain.”

  Legend said Volund had trained with the dvergar. Perhaps Wudga’s father could have explained these ruins …

  Starkad moved on to the other door. Less dust coated this one … someone had opened this passage more recently than the other. And those symbols … he’d seen those.

  He pulled the map
Wudga had sketched from his belt. Yes, the man had drawn that same rune in the corner of the map. Starkad couldn’t read aught, much less runes, so he hadn’t given it much thought, but it looked just the same as the one in the center of this door.

  He touched the symbol.

  Naught happened.

  There had to be some way past this damned door, though. “I don’t suppose your runeblade can cut through stone?”

  “I … don’t know. But either way … I prefer not to draw it unless faced with immediate foes.”

  Starkad glanced at her, but she didn’t explain herself. And he had no business pushing her, after all. After setting the torch down, he began pressing the door at every angle he could. Bits of stone and rock dust gave way under his efforts, but the door itself remained sealed.

  Would have been useful had Wudga explained how to bypass this barrier.

  Hervor, still inspecting the mural, had begun to crawl along the floor, tracing its path. Finally, she groaned and rose, her fingers trailing along the broken stone. “I think that …”

  She pushed on something in the design, and a faint click sounded inside the wall. Stone grated on stone as the door began to recede into the floor.

  A curtain of dust poured from overtop it, sending Starkad backing away, coughing on the cloud.

  He paused only to snatch up the torch and to draw a sword again. Then he pushed through the doorway into the next hall. This passage ran for a hundred feet before letting out into a cavern. The ceiling remained just above his head, some stalactites reaching down to not more than a foot above. The floor, however, dropped off beyond the range of the torchlight. A narrow ledge spiraled down around this pit, descending into the darkness.

  Water dripped from some few stalactites, splashing down far below.

  Starkad glanced back at Hervor, who nodded. Brave girl, he’d give her that. She might not enjoy these explorations as he did, but she’d not shy away from doing what had to be done.

  Torch out to the side, he started down the slope. Slow, steady, watching his footing. The path was slick with water runoff. His boot skidded a little. No, he’d need to steady himself. Reluctantly, he sheathed his sword and used his left hand to brace along the cavern wall. That too was worn slick by the water. Cold and damp.

  In fact, the whole place was chilled.

  Taking gingerly steps, Starkad descended the path. After a few moments, his torchlight began to reflect off mirror-like water below. He pushed on, until he made out what lay there. A circular pool dug into the floor, rimmed by carved stones, those too seeming rune-marked.

  Hervor pressed up behind him, holding her own torch out over the gap to peer into the depths.

  The waters were so still, she cast an almost perfect reflection in them, her torchlight seeming like a spreading flame below.

  Around the edges of the pool, the shadows were so deep, Starkad couldn’t make out much else. The cavern must overhang from the sides, blocking view. Otherwise, why wouldn’t the light illuminate the land as well as the water?

  He continued down the path until they reached the bottom. As he stepped off, the shadows seemed to recoil from his presence, seeping away like mist fleeing flame. Almost … alive?

  The darkness parted around him, but only just barely, only allowing him a bare few feet of light encircling him. And was this pool the eitr? If so, all he had to do was fill a skin with the stuff and they could be gone.

  “I need to claim some of this liquid,” he said. “But Wudga called it poison, so let not a single drop touch your skin.”

  “Why do we need poison?”

  “If Wudga speaks true, this poison gives rise to life.” Starkad pulled a skin and approached the waters.

  Hervor snorted. “I heard the great tree, Yggdrasil, gives rise to life. So what does …”

  A slight ripple disrupted the water, even before Starkad had dipped the flask inside.

  “Is there something in there?” Hervor asked.

  Starkad had begun to kneel beside the pool but now rose and fell back a step. “I don’t know. Wudga mentioned something about—”

  The waters ruptured, exploding in all directions. A serpentine head as big as Starkad’s own burst from the pool, drawn upon a body that extended a dozen feet or more. Withered, skeletal wings dripping with ichor sprouted from the body, spraying the tainted stuff in all directions.

  On pure instinct, Starkad tackled Hervor and drove her to the ground, out of the path of the waters. If they were poisonous … he rolled off as soon as they hit the ground, pulling both swords off his shoulders in the same moment.

  His war cry drew the serpent’s gaze onto him. Away from Hervor. He had to keep it away from Hervor. She could barely fight anymore.

  The creature lanced forward, its head shooting out like an arrow. Starkad fell backward, swinging his sword in an arc that clipped the dragon’s maw an instant before it would have snapped down on him.

  The creature recoiled the barest moment before lunging again.

  And again Starkad swept a blade at it. The sword clattered off scales, halting the dragon’s momentum but doing no visible damage to the monster. Damned thing was fast. He’d never keep this up for long.

  The serpent hissed, baring fangs dripping with black venom. Its breath filled the cavern with a noxious stench like rotting flesh, leaving Starkad queasy, unsteady on his feet.

  Trying to focus, he charged forward, one sword low, one high. The serpent surged at him, twisted to the side, avoiding one blade. It was smart. Not smart enough though. His other sword cleaved into the lighter scales holding its jaw together, spilling blood for the first time.

  Shrieking, Hervor swung her runeblade at the serpent from behind.

  Starkad had no clear view of her, but the serpent hissed furiously and whipped its body around so fast its coils slammed into Hervor and sent her flying against the cavern wall.

  Her runeblade clattered away, lost in shadows somewhere.

  Fuck.

  Starkad used the distraction to press forward, raining blows upon the dragon’s scales. Each clanged off ineffectively, no matter how much force he put behind them. The monster spun, revealing the gouge Tyrfing had torn along one side. Would that sword’s venom kill even such a beast? Or was this creature born of poison?

  Either way, he needed the runeblade. Eyes locked on the dragon that now met his gaze, Starkad edged around the pool. It had to be there somewhere. The monster did not stop him from reaching Hervor.

  It bobbed ever so slightly, hissing. Eyes filled with hatred no mortal could fathom.

  “Hervor …” he said, pitching his voice low. He didn’t want to alarm the …

  It lunged again, spraying more of the foul waters in the process.

  No way he’d dodge it, so he leapt forward, sweeping both blades up in tight arcs. Each collided with the serpent, but this time, it did not pull back. It surged forward, its hot venom landing on Starkad’s shoulder. His mail hissed as acidic poison corroded it, the stench almost enough to distract from the monster’s own foul odor.

  That was all he had time to think.

  He tried to raise his swords again.

  But the serpent darted around him, enwrapped him in its coils. Crushing weight pinned one arm to his side and stole the strength from the other. Vile waters seeped down over his head.

  The coils tightened. Air exploded from his lungs as his body started to collapse.

  His sword tumbled from limp fingers.

  The serpent raised its head above him. Its maw opened, dripping more hateful venom. The jaw unhinged itself, opening that cavernous mouth too wide.

  Like this … ? The end …

  Everything started to grow hazy.

  And then a shadow flew through the air, screaming.

  Hervor’s left-handed swing was clumsy. But then, the shieldmaiden had a large target.

  Tyrfing bit into the dragon’s body above where it held Starkad. Shearing through to the bone and halfway past it. Hervor landed
in a heavy roll that sent her colliding with the wall.

  The coils crushing Starkad loosened, ever so slightly.

  A hint of air reached his lungs.

  Gasping, panting for breath.

  Everything going black.

  CHILLS WRACKED HIM.

  He knew he thrashed on a cold stone floor, but he could not open his eyes.

  “Shh. Let the fire warm you.”

  A burning hand brushed his forehead.

  WHEN HE FINALLY CRACKED OPEN his eyes, the torches lying beside him had both burnt down to mere embers. Hervor reclined across from him, her back propped against the cavern wall. Chest rising and falling in slumber, albeit tormented slumber from the look of it.

  Starkad tried to speak, but his throat burned like he’d swallowed liquid flame.

  He rolled over, managing a groan instead. She’d removed his shirt and mail, laid both nearby to dry. Patches of his skin had turned black. Bruises, in some places, by the feel. But elsewhere … his flesh seemed half rotted. Where the waters had touched him?

  Then how was he yet alive? Was it a side effect of whatever Odin had done to extend his life? Did it render him resistant to poisons?

  “Hervor.” It sounded more like a croak than speech.

  But she opened her eyes and lurched over to him. “You’re all right. When I saw your flesh I feared …”

  He would have as well.

  The massive serpent lay sprawled over the cavern, still half submerged in the toxic pool.

  He groaned. “Let’s get what we came for.”

  “Indeed. I prefer not to sleep another moment in this vileness.”

  He could not have agreed more. This place was steeped in darkness and the Otherworldly. And though compelled always to seek out such places, to claim their riches … Starkad had never benefited aught from the Otherworlds.

  18