Days of Bloody Thrones (Runeblade Saga Book 2)

by Matt Larkin

  “They came from Thule.”

  Thule? Damn it. So the horrors Starkad and the others had woken had found a way off the island. This, then, fell upon them.

  Wudga shifted, groaning and working his swollen jaw. “Jorund is a pawn. Prince Rathwith controls him, and the draugar as well, though those came here following their own king.”

  Hervor groaned. Starkad could hardly blame her. Still, it should not surprise him that another draug had taken up the crown of the draug prince she and Orvar had slain.

  Starkad frowned. “But Jorund is the face of this army. If I kill him …”

  “You cannot.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I used the eitr you acquired to bathe his flesh in a brew that makes it impervious to harm.”

  Now Starkad groaned. “How did you even know how to …” Well, that answer seemed obvious enough. Rathwith, a svartalf prince, must be privy to all manner of forgotten lore. “If such a technique exists, why not treat all of the army with it?”

  “Because calling on the Art is draining, even for vaettir. Rathwith must maintain the power of it, and even that requires him to sustain himself on a constant banquet of souls. Fortunately, Jorund has fed him well, and the king and the prince both grow stronger with each life Jorund claims.”

  Now Hervor stalked closer and knelt beside them. “Surely not even this eitr can protect against Tyrfing.”

  Wudga glowered, shook his head. “No blade can harm him. Not even your precious runeblades, forged by the dvergar who, ancient in your eyes, are maggots before the likes of the svartalfar.”

  Hervor snatched up Wudga’s chains and yanked him toward her face. “So you mean to say Jorund is unstoppable? I refuse to believe that.”

  “Believe what you will.”

  No. It would not end like this. Starkad eased Hervor’s hands off of Wudga. “Rathwith is maintaining Jorund’s invincibility, yes? So the prince must be in possession of a host here, on Midgard.”

  “Yes.”

  “One not so protected by the eitr.”

  “Oh, but he is awash in it. Flush with the power of creation and the fuel of hundreds of devoured souls.”

  Starkad leaned back. “Awash in eitr … you mean … in the same pool that you sent me to.”

  “You slew the guardian of the eitr.”

  Oh godsdamn it all. Wudga had tricked him from the beginning … tricked him into slaying the dragon and opening the way for Rathwith to reach the eitr well. “So Rathwith bathes in the eitr and channels power to the svartalf possessing Jorund. But if Rathwith’s host were slain …”

  Now Wudga chuckled without the least apparent humor. “You may bear two runeblades, but you cannot overcome Prince Rathwith or his guardians, my friend. Submit to him. He will shed his rotten host and take your body and through you, rule all of Sviarland. You’ll be free to do with Jorund as it pleases you.”

  “Two runeblades …” Starkad glanced at the others. “Tyrfing and Naegling … and Mimung.”

  Wudga groaned. “So you’d take the very prize you fought to win me?”

  “No. No, you’re going to wield it. If you want to escape the urd that lies before you … confront it. Fight it and slay it with that very sword. Wudga, take my word for it … better to die fighting your terrors than live forever haunted by them in unending sleepless nights.”

  Ecgtheow cleared his throat. “Starkad. You and I and Hervor have faced our share of horrors, but this Rathwith sounds a good deal worse than even a draug prince.”

  “You cannot even begin to imagine,” Wudga said. “Mortal man cannot hope to overcome a being of such ancient an inexorable malice. Rathwith has watched the passing of eons and more changings of the world than you can conceive of. We go to our deaths and, perhaps, worse. He will feast on our very souls. Oblivion will be our fate—if we are lucky.”

  Ecgtheow coughed. “Right. Sounds encouraging. Are we certain no other option lies before us?”

  Starkad stood. “I see none, though I surely cannot force any of you to come down this road.”

  “You’re forgetting something,” Hrethel said. “While we fight this Rathwith, Jorund only strengthens his hold on Sviarland. You may go off hunting, but someone has to remain to delay his advance.”

  “In a fight you cannot possibly win?” Ecgtheow said. “I would not see my father-in-law meet Odin quite so soon.”

  Starkad barely managed to bite his tongue. Somehow, he doubted Odin arranged Valhalla for anyone. If Valhalla even existed. If aught besides the gates of Hel possibly awaited those fallen in battle.

  Hrethel shook his head. “Jorund and Eikkr spent a great deal of time pillaging along the coasts of Nidavellir before their father’s death. They made more than one enemy back then, even killed King Gudlög. Perhaps I can enlist some who would welcome any chance for vengeance.”

  From what Starkad remembered, Gudlög had been more pirate than king, but he supposed any ally was a boon at this point. He rose. “Hervor, go with him. Help him find Gudlög’s people.”

  She scoffed. “I’ll do no such thing. You need Tyrfing, and the sword does not leave my sight.”

  “You can barely fight.”

  “I am recovering—”

  “You’ll die!” And that Starkad could not allow. Not again. Not again.

  “If you plan to take Wudga with you, you need someone to keep an eye on him.” The pair of them had locked gazes. “Someone to run him through if he betrays you again.”

  Starkad waited, hoping Wudga would protest that he’d not do any such thing. But Volund’s son said naught, just stared daggers at Hervor. Finally, Starkad shook his head. “No man would question your bravery, Hervor. But you cannot—”

  “No, Starkad. You cannot tell me where I can and cannot go. Jorund has slain my king, and he … well, I have sworn to see him dead. And if I must go through Prince Rathwith, then so be it. I am coming with you.”

  Stubborn fool of a woman.

  One he could not stand to lose.

  31

  Hervor’s torch sputtered as they wandered back down these dark tunnels. She had not thought to return here, nor did the descent hold less fear the second time. No, this time, they knew what to find in the old dverg ruin, and it would be worse even than the dragon they’d slain before. This time, the dark prince awaited them.

  All too soon, they returned to the black pit and the spiral path descending into the darkness. Ecgtheow came up beside her, peering down into the abyss, while Wudga shied away from the pair of them … or from their torches. Inkeri hung yet farther back, clutching her own torch like it might preserve her from this nightmare. Ought to have left her behind. The shieldmaiden was brave enough, without doubt, but few—men or women—could handle places like this without breaking.

  Hervor wasn’t sure she herself could.

  And Starkad … well, naught seemed to frighten him. Already, he had begun his descent along that path. Forcing Hervor to follow. She had insisted on coming along, after all.

  “Going down there, I take it,” Ecgtheow said.

  Hervor did not bother answering the pointless question, instead slowly making her way after Starkad.

  Somehow, the torches seemed even less effective at driving back the darkness this day than they had on her first visit to this cursed ruin. Somehow … and she knew how, much as every instinct in her gut wanted to deny it was even possible. Oh, she had seen awful things on Thule and now here in Sviarland, and still … the human mind did not want to believe it might share the world with such abominations.

  At the path’s end, Starkad had drawn up short, staring out into the chamber they’d descended around.

  Another man lay enwrapped in the coils of the dead dragon, half submersed in the pool, flesh the color of old ash, and hair black as pitch. His squinting eyes reflected the torchlight, gleaming an unearthly yellow. Black fluid dribbled out of his mouth and over his chin.

  So transfixed was she at the sight, only when another person groaned d
id she see it—naked men and women, chained along the boundary of the pool. Numerous cuts marred their flesh, and blood dribbled slowly to mix in with the water. Hervor stifled a gasp as more of the horror came into focus. Strange runes painted in blood spread out in a ring around the prisoners, a perverse circle she could not have imagined in her worst nightmares. To even gaze upon those symbols set her mind squirming in protest, and they seemed to move as she looked at them.

  And now, amidst shifting shadows, other forms moved. Two, maybe three of these svartalfar.

  “Eikkr?” Ecgtheow said. Hervor had not even realized he’d drawn up behind her.

  As he did, as they all did, the torches dimmed further, lengthening the shadows until Hervor could almost pretend the profane ritual did not exist. And yet some visions could not be unseen.

  The being enmeshed with the dragon corpse chuckled, the sound reverberating through the chambers, as if the darkness itself cast its echoes. “The body is … a vessel.”

  Starkad took a step off the path, now armed with a sword granted by Hrethel as well as one of the ones he’d carried before. “I’m going to kill you now.”

  Again, that fell chuckle that might have unnerved Hel herself. “Boy, I have watched you since the paltry and self-important king of the Aesir called upon us on your behalf. I have watched you slaughter and bleed this world dry and waited … and here, I thought I would send my servants to claim you. But instead, you deliver yourself to me freely. And soon, I shall shed this rotting carcass and claim that which I invested in back then.”

  “My son,” another of the shadows said. From that direction, limped out another svartalf. Despite his obviously lame leg, he moved with a grace and vitality that shamed Rathwith’s sickly looking form. “You seem to have grown confused, but at least you brought your subject back here at last.”

  Wudga strode forward, Mimung in hand, a not-quite-concealed tremble shaking the blade as he drew up beside Starkad.

  Hervor reached for Tyrfing. If Wudga betrayed them now …

  “I made another choice, Father.”

  “Urd is not about choices, my son … I fear you must learn that one day or another.”

  “Enough banter,” Rathwith said. “Submit to me now, Starkad, and I will grant your companions a swift death and even allow their souls to pass from this realm without molestation. You cannot hope for a more generous offer. For I have spent eons steeping in the lightless realms, absorbing the mysteries of the dark, until I have become one with shadow. Deny me, and through those shadows, I shall rip the secrets from your minds and the light from your bodies, leaving naught but hollowness fit to serve the dark.”

  Starkad took another step forward. “I cannot escape the dark. Perhaps I never could … but though damned, I still shall not bend to your will, wretch.”

  Rathwith cackled wheezily. He was feeding so much of his energy to Jorund that maybe … if they struck fast …

  The svartalf prince clenched his fists.

  Every torch they carried winked out.

  Leaving them in total darkness.

  32

  O h fuck.

  Starkad faltered, unable to make out aught in the chamber. Just sounds. The soft pad of boots on stone, the shifting of leather and mail. The moaning of the victims from Rathwith’s ritual.

  And then pale light flared up into the cavern. In Hervor’s hand, Tyrfing cast its fell gleam through the chamber.

  A svartalf not a foot from Starkad hissed at the sudden flare of light.

  Wasting no time, Starkad spun, a swipe of his sword taking the vaettr’s head from his shoulders.

  Volund shambled away from him, and Wudga stepped up, driving his father further into the darkness. The man had hardly earned Starkad’s trust … but under such circumstances, Starkad had little choice.

  Hervor drew up beside Starkad while Ecgtheow and Inkeri began to flank Rathwith, clearly not the least bit intent to close in on that poison pool.

  Starkad, however, had survived those toxins before. And he’d do it again if needs be. “I don’t think you can leave the pool, can you? Does the eitr sustain that corpse you’ve possessed? Or would stepping away merely break Jorund’s invincibility? In either case … the Yngling king will not endure long once I send your screaming soul back into the darkness of the Otherworld.”

  Rathwith sneered. “You were not listening at all, boy. I told you … I dwelt long in darkness, until all its secrets unfolded before me.” The svartalf prince heaved like a man about to retch. And then, indeed, his whole body seemed to vomit at once, expelling from it a shadow. An umbral duplicate of the svartalf, armed with a sword of darkness. Only a hint of Rathwith’s features persisted in this entity. The shadow copy walked upon the pool’s surface and strode out to meet Starkad.

  “I’ll deal with this thing,” Starkad said. “Hervor, kill the prince.”

  “Gladly.”

  But the shadow before Starkad writhed and then ruptured, split into a copy of itself that broke away and moved in on Hervor. While Rathwith vomited out another of the shadowy likenesses of himself.

  Well. Fuck.

  Bellowing a war cry, Starkad charged at the nearest of the creatures. It jerked its blade up, and Starkad’s own clanged upon it, ringing out like he’d struck actual iron. Indeed, this creature moved almost like a being of flesh and blood, despite its features seeming fluid and concealed. Roaring, Starkad launched attack after attack, driving the shadow creature backward.

  And still, it was fast, skilled with that blade, as if possessed of Rathwith’s immeasurable years of practice. Other shadow effigies had engaged Hervor, Ecgtheow, and Inkeri, while Wudga had disappeared into the darkness in pursuit of Volund.

  And how many more of these creatures could Rathwith create? An army?

  No.

  If he could do that, he’d not have needed a mortal army. Indeed, the svartalf convulsed and grew even more ashen as Starkad’s allies fought against the shadows. So even this ancient creature had its limits. And Starkad was going to find them.

  He rained blows upon the shadow until, at last, he managed to knock down the sword with one of his own. Vikar’s sword lanced up and opened the creature’s throat. It fell back a few steps. Shuddered. And then came at Starkad again.

  No blood.

  It moved like flesh … but it was not flesh.

  Now Starkad dropped backward. No flesh … it could not die? It was hardly Starkad’s wont to pray … but now …

  Not that Odin could even hear prayers.

  Roaring, Starkad advanced back in. The shadow had grown yet faster, more aggressive. That fell blade darted out again and again, until it gashed Starkad’s arm. An icy chill shot up his limb and filled his neck, seeming to choke him. Every breath became pained.

  “Fucking die!” Starkad continued to fall back, letting the creature press its attack.

  Then he twisted out of the way and swung down with his good arm. His newly granted blade sheared through the shadow’s arm at the elbow. The shadow’s sword vanished into nothingness its severed arm going with it. With its other arm, it lurched for Starkad’s throat. Starkad lopped that one off too.

  Even as it came on, its first arm grew back out of the darkness, followed by a new blade. A replacement for its second arm.

  “They call you Eightarms …” The sound hissed from the shadow, but it was Rathwith’s voice.

  And now, another pair of arms jutted from his foe and another sword to match. And again and again, until the shadow creature truly had eight arms and four blades.

  Starkad spared the barest glance at the real Rathwith, unreachable beyond the monstrosity that now barred Starkad’s way. The svartalf prince convulsed. Black cracks now split his flesh, weeping some foul oil—perhaps more of the eitr itself. But the shadow before Starkad had risen up, well over seven feet tall. Blades of darkness cleft the air, forcing him into an endless series of dodges, parries. Lacking the slightest chance to counter.

  If only he could … creati
ng these things was weakening Rathwith. So if Starkad could cut it down enough times …

  But then, he’d likely get himself lopped in half before Rathwith gave out. Nor could Starkad keep his own speed up forever. Not like this.

  Across from him, Inkeri shrieked. The effigy she fought had hacked its blade across her guts. Now, it stooped, snatched her up, and carried her to the pool of eitr.

  “No!” Starkad pushed forward, tried to get to her. His efforts only earned him a gash along his face. Seeping cold and darkness leeched his strength.

  The effigy dropped Inkeri into the pool. Rathwith shuddered with obvious pleasure, a hint of vigor coming back into his failing form.

  The monstrous shadow engaging Starkad swung even faster now, and Starkad scrambled away. His foot slipped in some muck, and he caught himself on the wall. Nowhere left to go.

  Hervor bellowed and drove Tyrfing point first through the chest of the shadow facing her. The creature shuddered. It rent apart and dissolved like smoke. And the abomination closing in on Starkad faltered. Slowed ever so slightly.

  Starkad rolled away, getting space between himself and that thing.

  Rathwith had focused most of his energy upon Starkad, knew him for the best fighter. And had not taken into account the runeblades Hervor and Ecgtheow wielded.

  The shadow that had slain Inkeri now closed in on Hervor.

  “Give me Tyrfing!” Starkad shouted at her.

  “I will not!” The shieldmaiden raced forward, engaging the next shadow.

  Damn it. “I can end this!”

  Hervor offered no answer, and the next instant, the eight-armed shadow was back on Starkad, forcing him onto the defensive once again.

  Even with Tyrfing, Hervor’s wounds kept her from fighting as she once had. This wasn’t going to work. Not like this.

  Starkad dared to steal a glance at Ecgtheow, but the shadow he faced had begun to fight more defensively, clearly wary of the runeblade.

  As the monstrosity closed in again, Starkad rolled past it. If he could make it to Rathwith … the shadow’s blades flashed, and Starkad had to throw himself to the floor. He landed in blood or muck and slid along until he collided with one of the chained victims, tangled himself in her limbs. She wailed, beating at him—driven mad by her suffering.