by Matt Larkin
“That one …” the draug said, pointing to an older man among Bjalmar’s warriors. He’s the champion, Gunther Blueshield. Once a master warrior … Still Bjalmar’s most trusted … And you … must slay him.”
“I …”
“Destroy him.”
Oh, and Ecgtheow could see it in his mind. Him cutting down the aging champion, Naegling glistening with blood. Body hung as a warning to all not to question the rightful king. He could see it … He shook his head. Awful visions he wouldn’t have wished upon anyone.
“Destroy … him. Cut him … to shreds.”
“I …” It did seem the fitting thing to do. Sounded like … justice. Bjalmar had started this fight, no doubt using Gunther or men like him on his own raids. No one was innocent, anyway. An old warrior was just one who was better at killing than those around him. A hot anger began to rise up from Ecgtheow’s gut, settling in his chest, scorching his lungs. “I … probably ought to … destroy him.”
He hefted Naegling and advanced on Bjalmar’s thegn. To his credit, the man caught his gaze, and instead of backing away or calling for aid, he strode straight to meet Ecgtheow.
The thegn bore sword and shield, both held like a veteran of many battles. As Ecgtheow drew nigh, Gunther fell into a fighting stance, moving with caution, care. Not too hasty. Yes, here was a worthy opponent. One who needed destroying.
“I will be proud to send you to the valkyries.”
Gunther sneered. “And I’ll send you faithless dogs to the gates of Hel.”
Faithless. Ecgtheow shook his head. Bastard had serious stones on him, considering they had struck first. Well, now he would strike first. Ecgtheow came in with a series of rapid slashes.
Gunther caught each on his shield, then recoiled, clearly shocked as the runeblade carved out chunks of his protection with every blow. Ecgtheow didn’t slow his advance. He had size, strength, and youth over the old man.
Ecgtheow had to destroy him. The thought was a red hot iron in his mind. A seething rage that made it hard to even draw a damn breath.
Gunther turned a parry into a riposte so masterfully his blade scraped along Ecgtheow’s mail and even cut his cheek. A faster, stronger man might’ve opened his throat with that move. And they both knew it.
Roaring, Ecgtheow swiped viciously with Naegling. Gunther fell into the defensive, unable to stand up to such a relentless assault. The old man fell back, losing ground fast.
And then his foot slipped on someone’s intestine. The thing squelched as Gunther’s footing gave way. He flailed his arms a bare instant, then pitched over backward, onto his arse.
Destroy him. Rend him.
Bellowing with fury he could not explain, Ecgtheow swiped down, severing Gunther’s right arm at the elbow. It gushed blood as the old man screamed. Feeling himself almost in a dream, Ecgtheow brought the blade up again, then chopped off the man’s other arm.
The simmering anger dimmed, just a hint. Troll shit, it felt like the mist was inside his skull, floating around, obscuring his thoughts.
And here he was, dragging this old man’s corpse through the mud and shit, pulling him by the hair. Huh. Where was he taking him?
Oh. Of course. A twisted tree loomed up before him. Just outside the town. Had to have the warning …
Ecgtheow grabbed a rope from some warriors watching to make sure no one escaped, tied a noose, and then flung it over a thick branch. The noose he pulled around Gunther’s neck—man was long dead now—and then heaved him up to where the corpse could swing in the breeze. The rope he tied off on another tree, then stood blinking at what he’d wrought.
Seemed like the right thing to do. Didn’t it?
Why did he feel apt to retch?
Huh.
So much fog in his head.
“King Hrethel wants Bjalmar brought to him in chains,” Haethcyn said. The young man was also staring up at Gunther, shaking his head.
Everything seemed so far away. What rage had so taken him that he felt the need to hang this corpse here? It just … seemed the right thing to do. That was all he could think of it.
Haethcyn guided him away, toward the walls surrounding Bjalmar’s hall.
It took the men a while to climb those walls and get the gates open. Ecgtheow stood there with Haethcyn, watching. Why in Hel’s frozen underworld had he felt so enraged at Gunther? Part of him wanted to look back, over his shoulder, to see if he could still spot where he’d hung the thegn’s mutilated body. But … He didn’t really want to see it.
Instead, he kept his eyes locked on the burning wall. On the men screaming, dying, on both sides of the fight.
Lot of blood. There was always so much blood. And then the shit, the gore. Battlefields always turned into these putrid messes.
The wooden gates creaked open, revealing a small inner town with a few houses as well as the jarl’s own hall. Flames had already spread inside, engulfing the houses nigh to the wall. Chaos spread in war. Ecgtheow shook his head. No help for it, and Hrethel had wanted to send a message.
Suppose it was sent now.
Leave naught but ash.
Ugh. His head hurt. The damn mist … all rattling around in his brain.
Ecgtheow shook himself again, then joined the charge through those gates. A woman came up on him, shieldmaiden maybe, though she didn’t have armor, just a spear. Ecgtheow’s blade opened her throat and he left her lying in the dirt, blood seeping through fingers that would never staunch its flow.
Could’ve been Hervor.
Destroy.
Lying, murderous bitch would have deserved such an end.
More warriors came on him, and too, common folk and slaves, armed with tools as oft as actual weapons. Ecgtheow and his men carved through them in the space of a few heartbeats, littering the courtyard with corpses.
How fast men went from living people to dead things, still and rotting.
The jarl himself stumbled from his flaming hall, shaking his head. His gaze finally came to rest on Ecgtheow, and he pointed his sword at him.
Before Ecgtheow could stride toward him, though, a hand fell on his shoulder.
Haethcyn, shaking his head. “Let me do this, champion. As Father’s son, grant me this honor.”
Ecgtheow supposed there was sense in that. Bjalmar had wronged Hrethel most directly, so maybe it ought to be Hrethel’s own son to bring the jarl in. So Ecgtheow stuck Naegling’s point in the bloody dirt and watched.
Watched, as Haethcyn stalked forward with utter confidence. As the jarl lunged at the young man. As Haethcyn batted away the clumsy attack with his shield and slammed the pommel of his sword into the jarl’s jaw.
And that was it.
The old man dropped to his knees in an instant, weapon falling from his limp grasp, blood gurgling out of his broken jaw.
Awful wound, really. A broken jaw meant a man couldn’t speak, could hardly swallow, sure as fuck couldn’t chew his food. Ecgtheow wouldn’t have wished it on anyone. But then, Bjalmar had betrayed them all.
Haethcyn smirked and turned away, beckoning to his men. “Strip him naked and bind him in manacles. We’ll find a cart to drag this troll shit back to Lake Vättern.”
Huh. Ecgtheow frowned. Something seemed off about that, though he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the reason. Something was … Huh. “You strip the old man naked he’s like to catch the deathchill long before we get him back to the lake.”
The prince rolled his eyes, then threw his hands up. “Very well. Leave the jarl his trousers. No one wishes to look upon his shriveled cock anyway, I am quite certain. Ah, but take the boots. Make sure we walk him through the battlefield on the way to the cart. Make certain any of his people who yet live see their jarl.”
Ah. Well, Hrethel wanted to make a point.
Ecgtheow supposed this would do it.
PART III
Third Moon
Year 29, Age of the Aesir
16
Winter had grown very nigh. Soon, the la
nd would grow even colder, and Hervor had no idea how they’d make the return journey. Assuming they ever found Starkad’s mysterious valley.
No, she supposed she did know what would happen.
They’d both die out here, beyond the Midgard Wall. Die, and see their souls sucked down to the gates of Hel. She had grown so numb, so tired, that the thought no longer frightened her as much as it once might have.
And then, at last, they crested a severe hill, and Starkad pointed down into the valley below. The downward slope was almost a sheer drop, a crater ringing a mist-filled hole in the earth.
“Is that … Niflheim?”
Starkad chuckled. “Hardly. There lies our destination.”
“Falling down …” Scyld mumbled from somewhere behind them. “Down … down … deep in darkness.”
That pit of mist? “Oh, Odin’s balls, Starkad!” Hervor threw up her hands.
“Odin’s … what?” He shook his head. Snorted. “Gods … Hervor. You are a strange woman.” He pointed to a spot on the cliff some twenty feet away from them. “That looks rough enough we might make out some handholds. We can scale down into the valley from there. Besides, best be out of the chill before night settles.”
Hervor glanced up at the sky. Yes, and it was like to take hours to climb down that route, assuming they could do so safely at all. But Starkad had a point. Up atop the hill, the wind was even bitterer. Best get this done and get out of Jotunheim.
She glanced at Scyld. “He’ll fall and break his neck.”
Starkad looked over the madman, who had now settled down into the snow and was tracing circles around with one finger. “Leave him, then. I agreed to bring him here and I have. Aught more is up to him.”
Callous, but … what choice did they have? Scyld clearly wasn’t making any climb. Grumbling under her breath, Hervor trudged over to the area Starkad had selected. There, she peered down into the void. She could only guess at how deep it was down there, what with the mist. What if the valley descended below the level of the ground like an abyss into Niflheim? Despite Starkad’s reassurances, that looked an awful lot like a pit to some Otherworld to Hervor.
On hands and knees, Starkad swung over the ledge, already beginning that painful-looking descent.
“I hate you sometimes …” Hervor muttered after him. Then she knelt, and swung herself over the ledge as well. On the way down, she cast a last glance in Scyld’s direction. The madman was gone, must’ve wandered off somewhere. Fool would freeze out here …
Not her problem.
Not her godsdamned problem.
“Scyld?”
No answer.
Fuck it. Starkad was right. She couldn’t afford to risk her life for the half-dead madman.
Ice crusted over the jutting rocks, made them slick. Hardly secure. She was going to fall and break her neck. She was going to fall. And if she did, she was sure as fuck going to fall right onto Starkad. Bastard.
Her boot skidded along the too-slick wall, searching for purchase she already knew wasn’t there.
A dusting of ice crystals showered down onto her face.
Damn Starkad.
She’d made it down ten feet, maybe, and her chest was heaving with the effort. Had to take every step with agonizing care. Couldn’t afford a single mistake.
Another ten feet.
Her throat was burning with the cold. Chilling her lungs. Made it hard to catch her breath.
Bastard was probably loving this too. Always chasing after some life-threatening adventure. Couldn’t get rich by plundering coastal villages like a normal person. No, he had to go out and challenge the fucking Otherworlds just to prove he had the stones for it …
Her hand slipped.
Hervor screamed as she slid down the cliff. Ice-covered rocks tore open her cheek, her brow, her arms. Her foot caught on a rock below and turned her ankle the wrong way. Another scream, but she managed to snare a handhold with her right hand.
The better part of her weight fell upon her bad shoulder, and she shrieked at the pain. Her grip faltered and she tilted backward, slapping the cliff wall with her good hand before finally finding a rock that would support her.
Gasping in pain, she pressed up against the wall.
“Hervor!”
She didn’t dare lean away from the cliff to even look at him.
“Hervor! Are you all right?”
No. No, she was not fucking all right. If he wanted adventure, they could have gone pirating. They could have raided in Hunaland. They could have done aught else save this mist-mad troll shit.
She huffed in another painful breath. Then she eased her injured foot off the rock. Slowly. Very slowly. Try to find another … A fresh jolt of pain shot up her leg as she put weight on a lower rock. And now the other foot.
“Hervor?” Starkad called again.
“I’m coming, damn it!” Every time they went somewhere she wound up doing this. Every single fucking time. How was that even possible? Did he plan it somehow? Was Odin taunting her?
One painful step at a time, she continued down, until, at last, she managed to join Starkad at the base of the valley.
The steep cliffs did indeed cut out the wind chill, and even the snow seemed lighter here, though it still blanketed all she could see. Which, given the mist, was less than a dozen feet ahead. Starkad had kindled a pair of fresh torches and handed one off to her.
Hervor shot him a glare he didn’t even seem to notice, snatched the torch, and pushed forward. Walking on her bad ankle hurt, but not as much as it had. Not sprained then, praise Odin. Just a twist.
“Happy now?” she mumbled when Starkad moved in beside her.
He grunted, not quite denying her accusation. Right. Well, all she had to do was tell him the truth about what she’d done and … and watch him turn on her.
Instead, torch out just to her side, she made her way forward. Soon, they came to buildings wrought from large stone blocks. The designs lacked the scale or glory of Godmund’s hall, but still, these structures surpassed aught built since the fall of the Old Kingdoms. It lent credence to Starkad’s theory about these people’s origins, she supposed.
She passed between the nearest two, trying to find aught resembling a lord’s hall.
Without warning, a shadow settled over the valley, as if someone had doused a torch. Darkness swept in so suddenly her breath caught.
“Sunset,” Starkad said. “Come. Let us hurry.” He took the lead, darting between buildings.
Despite the passing of ages, despite the emptiness, the structures had not fallen into disrepair. Mounds of snow covered them, but the roofs had not caved in. Almost as if someone maintained this place …
From the corner of her eye, a shadow passed beside her.
Hervor spun, waving her torch.
Still naught but darkness and mist.
“Do not let them unnerve you,” Starkad said.
“Them?” So he knew there was something out there.
“They are watching us. But they hold no power over the world of the living save that which we give them. Move steadily and do not look too deeply into …”
She turned to see what had forestalled his words.
An entity drifted out from the mist. A warrior, shrouded in etheric blue flame that glittered off its damaged mail. It bore a chain coif as well, beneath which lurked naught but darkness and a hollow void.
As if from nowhere, the entity hefted a pitted and rusting blade, that too glimmering with blue flame.
Hervor jerked Tyrfing free of its sheath, and it immediately sprang to light, as if lit by pale fire itself. Starkad hesitated. Hervor did not. She rushed in and swung at the ghost. The fell creature batted away her strike with its sword.
The impact jolted her, all too real despite the ghost seeming ethereal. Shrieking, she struck again and again.
The ghost parried with shocking grace, until it turned in riposte, forcing her back. Its own attacks came at her with Otherworldly speed. Starkad pushed he
r out of the way of one such blow and rained attacks upon the ghost.
One of his blades scraped off its mail. The other tore through what should have been flesh and seemed to meet only air. The ghost shuddered, its form flickering as Hervor came around at it again.
The entity brought its blade around in a counter that forced Starkad to fall back.
Hervor launched herself forward and plunged Tyrfing through mail and etheric form. The ghost flickered again, shrieking this time. It vanished in a puff of blue flame.
Panting, Hervor let Tyrfing fall to her side. It wasn’t pounding in her ears, so maybe it was satisfied with killing ghosts. “What in the gates of Hel, Starkad?”
“I … I have never known ghosts to be able to fight with a man like that … save in fanciful tales.” He looked around, for once seeming as lost as she felt.
Oh, and that did not comfort her in the least. “Starkad … are you certain whatever you seek here is worth such madness? Let us leave this place and tell Gylfi the lengths we went to in order to—”
“I cannot turn back.” Saying it almost seemed to pain him. Was that all part of his curse as well?
He tromped forward a few steps, then paused. Looked around down a street she could not see, shaking his head.
Oh, that couldn’t be good.
Hervor raced over to join him. Another blue-flamed ghost drifted toward them, sword in hand. “Not more of these things.”
“No, Hervor. Not more. Look at the rent in its mail, just where you pierced it. This is the same one.”
She faltered, falling back a step. That was impossible. Tyrfing had struck down that ghost. She had slain it.
“If we cannot kill them …”
Starkad pointed down another alley. “Run.”
17
T hey dashed down the alley and back out onto a main street.
Here, Starkad stumbled to a stop. Dozens of figures flitted about in a market. The light settled wrong on features ever so faintly translucent, as those people—those ghosts—drifted about. Some looked to be selling wares, though without the merest sound. Others inspected goods or wandered without obvious intent.
