by Matt Larkin
“Then prove it.”
Without another word, Ilona spun on her heel and stormed out of the temple. She had not gotten far before a commotion at the shoreline drew her attention. The sun was low on the horizon, behind her, illuminating a ship in the harbor, but not a Lofdar ship. Three foreign ships, in fact.
Prince Audr was there at the shore, along with Loridi and his warriors, all gathered with weapons drawn to see those coming ashore. But their visitors were not Niflungar, not as she’d have suspected, nor even Odlingar—she’d heard the Niflung Art had all but wiped out the Lofdar’s southern neighbors. No, so who were … The foreign warriors bore a crest painted upon their shields, the sign of the sea serpent.
Skjöldungar.
No wonder Audr seemed poised to attack them any instant now. Those island bastards had sided with the Niflungar.
Now, though, their warriors looked worn ragged. Some had blood crusted in their hair and clothes, as if they had not had the time or energy to clean it in all the days it must have taken to come here.
“Prince Seskef,” Audr said. “You trespass upon the shores of Kvenland at your immense peril. Here reigns the flame of the Lofdar.” The prince fingered the hilt of his runeblade over his shoulder. The flaming sword Laevateinn, against whom no man could stand. If he drew that, the battle would be over in moments, though Seskef himself surely bore his own runeblade.
Seskef advanced, stepping around his warriors to face Audr, though not drawing too close. “We seek sanctuary.”
“Sanctuary?” Loridi said. “What, do the Niflungar not keep their beds warm enough for you lot?”
A few Lof warriors chuckled at that.
Seskef glared at the general before looking back to the prince. “Cousin … We are kin through the lines of Halfdan the Old. Surely …”
“We are kin, yes,” Audr said. “To the extent I am unfortunately kin to the heirs of Naefil. No more than that. I see it in you, though. They betrayed you, even as they betrayed the Odlingar. Drove you from your homes?”
Oh. Well, that was interesting. The Niflungar had lost Aujum this past summer, had retreated to the sea. Audr had told them all that their foes must have fled to their allies in Reidgotaland. True enough, it seemed, but … but their new king must have then claimed those lands himself. And when Seskef no doubt refused to be a slave in his own land …
“It was a slaughter in the night,” Seskef said. “Those bastards called upon the Art, turned the Otherworlds against us. None of our sorcerers nor seidkonur were prepared for their unprovoked assault, and so many died before we could even—”
Audr held up a hand. “So our enemies have further weakened themselves in claiming Reidgotaland. That does not make you our allies. Too long the heirs of Halfdan tolerated one another only to find ourselves betrayed by our so-called kin. Now the time has come to bring the flame to light all of Midgard.”
Ilona licked her lips. The vaettr inside reveled at Audr’s words. At the thought of spreading the flame, any flame. Let it all burn. But Audr had grown increasingly warlike, reckless. Some said he turned to aspects of the Art not even the seidkonur would look to, and the witches already employed means that priests like Loge—and now Ilona—were meant to shun. Audr’s obsession with destroying the Niflungar bore its own dangers. Not least among them, he now seemed intent to turn his back upon another prince beseeching aid.
The prince twisted something—she couldn’t see it clearly from here—around his wrist, shifting in obvious discomfort. “What would you have me do?” Seskef asked after the silence had drug on for an overlong moment.
Audr shrugged. “I care not. Flee south, to the lands now emptied by your former Odling allies. They are gone, many slain and raised as draugar by the Niflung Art and their fell goddess. Perhaps you will find shelter in the ruins.”
“You know we cannot escape them there. They have a new sorceress, one mist-mad and …”
Again, Audr forestalled him with a simple gesture. A wave of his hand. And the Lof prince turned his back on Seskef. Without another word, Audr stormed off, followed by Loridi and the thegns, while other warriors stood watching Seskef and his people, waiting for them to board their ships and leave, granted neither sanctuary nor even so much as a meal.
A wasted opportunity Ilona could not afford. Sooner or later, Loge might press the issue with her, or even manage to sway Audr, though the prince listened to the priest less these days as far as Ilona could tell. But either way, maybe Seskef and she could help one another. If one prince did not need her, another might find her indispensable. And Seskef had said he’d lost most of his seidkonur, and surely had no pyromancers …
She drifted among the warriors and they parted around her, allowed her to approach the foreign prince.
All save one warrior who rose up to protect his lord.
“It’s all right, Felman,” Seskef said after the barest pause. “Let her pass.”
“My lord. I think we ought to speak before you make sail.”
Seskef glanced back at an older woman standing upon the ship, who frowned. His wife? Beside her stood a young man, Seskef’s son, perhaps.
The thegn, Felman, whispered something in Seskef’s ear, and the prince nodded and motioned for Ilona to walk along the shore with him. They trod some distance away from the city and Audr’s many ears therein.
A shelf of ice now rimmed the Gulf of Kvenland in all directions, save where the men had hacked it away at the harbor. Everywhere, winter was settling in, and settling in hard.
Finally, Seskef paused at the edge of the ice and turned to her. His eyes swept over her body, clearly appreciative, and Ilona dipped one shoulder ever so slightly, emphasizing her bosom. “Who are you?” he asked finally.
“I am Ilona. Once of the seidkonur, now a pyromancer of the sacred flame.”
“Huh. A witch and a priestess. And what do you wish of the Skjöldungar?”
Ilona quirked a slight smile, the kind that worked on almost any man she’d ever met. It had worked on Audr, after all, when she’d come to him against the witch council’s orders. “There is no shelter for your people in Kvenland.”
Seskef fingered a silver arm ring on his wrist, worked in the likeness of a serpent. “So your prince made abundantly clear. We were fools to think the foes of our betrayers might aid us in our time of need. Perhaps we can find succor in Aujum, now the Niflungar have abandoned it.”
Ilona murmured, then twisted, swaying her hips in the process and staring out over the gulf. She could feel his eyes on her back, all too perfect. “You could try that. You could try the Odling lands across the gulf. Both have much the same problem for such a small force … no friendly faces left.” Now she turned back, again flashing the hint of a smile which she quickly let slip into a sympathetic frown. “No friends at all. Just the dead … the dead of many battles. Some of them … wakeful.”
“You mean the draugar and ghosts and … wraiths …” He all but hissed the last word. “The remnants the Niflungar seem to leave in their wake.”
“So it is.”
“Where would you have me go, then? We are not like to find any more welcome among the Hildings nor Budlungar. And the Dӧglinar … they’d have killed us even before all the wars broke out. Where does that leave us?”
Ilona nodded. “Indeed. And from all I have seen of Audr’s rage and of the Niflungar’s ambition … these wars are far from done. All the kingdoms must either burn or freeze before it is finished, and not one among them is like to love your people now, my prince. So if nowhere safe remains on Midgard … Perhaps you ought to seek solace beyond it.”
“What mist-madness, woman?”
Ah, she had to be careful here, or he would truly think her wits taken by the mist. A gentle prod to guide him in the right direction. “I told you before, once I was among the seidkonur, trusted in their secret circles, privy to their most guarded lore. To tales of kingdoms beyond the wall, where we are falsely led to believe human life cannot endure.”
> Seskef faltered. “You believe my people might be safer to leave this world entirely?”
Ilona smiled again. “Faced with impossible odds, sometimes a desperate move is all that remains. You require allies, those who would not turn their backs upon you. Those with no grudges, old or new. And if we can find such a kingdom beyond the Midgard Wall, we might yet flourish.”
“We? You would come with me?”
“I will help you find the way to our new home. A place that might long shelter us from the ravages of the world.”
Finally, Seskef nodded. “So be it. I see we have naught else left to lose.”
20
Hervor’s stomach lurched, and she managed to finally heave up the paltry food still in it. Bile scorched her throat and vomit dribbled down her neck.
Odin’s godsdamned balls! What the fuck was that?
Finally, she managed to roll over onto her side and wipe her face. Starkad was there in an instant. With a wet rag, he wiped away the rest of the mess on her.
All she could do was grunt, groan.
Her eyes felt burned, like she spent days in a fever dream. Maybe she had. “Wha …”
“I have no idea. I was afraid the ghost had … taken your body.”
Was that what the witch had tried? This … Ilona? “I … saw … her life, I think.” Hervor’s throat was so dry. “Bits and pieces … so confusing.”
As if sensing her discomfort, Starkad produced a skin of water and dribbled a few drops into her mouth. Hervor gagged on it, choking and barely able to swallow.
Hands under her shoulders, Starkad pulled her into a sitting position against a tree. She blinked. Still night out. “How long …?”
“Half an hour, maybe. You saw the memories of this witch?”
She tried to nod, but only managed a single incline of her head before dizziness seized her. “Ilona.”
“Do you think the ghost intended you to see this, or was she trying to possess you?”
And how the fuck would Hervor know that? Rather than answer, she favored him with a glare, even knowing it must look pathetic in her current state. Wait. Hadn’t she seen … ?
“Let me see the arm ring again?”
“The one Scyld stole from here?” Starkad fished it out of his bag and handed it to her.
The very same. “In my vision, the prince wore this …”
Starkad frowned and glanced about them, then shook his head. “More reason it might have been drawn back here, maybe. Either way, I need to find the runeblade so we can leave this place.”
“You’re not … leaving me behind.”
“I don’t want to, but … You seem ill-suited to face any more of those ghosts. Let me take Tyrfing—”
“The sword is mine!”
Starkad pulled away his hand, shaking his head. “Damn, but you are stubborn, woman.”
She pushed herself upward, her strength finally starting to return. “Best you just give in, then.”
Grumbling, he gripped her elbow and helped her stand. The effort drew a groan from her.
“You can’t do this, can you?”
Hervor glared at him again. “I just need a bit to catch my breath.”
“Let me borrow Tyrfing … an hour, maybe less. I can search the town and we can get out of here.”
“Fuck you.” She took a faltering step forward.
Starkad released his grip on her elbow and Hervor pitched down to one knee, hands crunching down in the snow.
“You need rest.”
“So you’ll leave me alone out here?”
Starkad threw up his hands. “The ghosts are back in the town for now. You should be fine here. Just stay out of sight and I’ll return shortly.”
So this was it. He would leave her here to pursue his damned runeblade. Worse, he had all but demanded she surrender her sword. Her father’s legacy. The very blade that had murdered Orvar-Oddr.
Did he know?
Did he suspect?
She snorted under her breath. Of course not. He’d not have needed to take her sword to kill her if he did. So … let the man wield that which ought to grace her hand alone, or risk spending yet longer in this cursed vale?
Damn it. “Just take it, then. And Starkad … be quick.”
He offered a stiff nod, then eased her back into a sitting position before helping her unshoulder Tyrfing’s baldric. This he slung over his own shoulder, then paused, staring at her.
Looking deep into her eyes.
If he looked deep enough, would he see the real Hervor? The liar? The murderer? The one who had betrayed him and his friends? Yes, he would see her, if she let him look too deep.
“Just go, damn it.”
At that he turned and trotted off, back toward the town.
Hervor groaned. Odin’s balls, everything hurt. And what was she going to do about Starkad? She’d sworn to help him recover this runeblade. So she’d do that, for certain. But if they got out of this alive, then … what?
Would the weight in her chest forever come between them? What did she even want from the man? Part of her kept seeing them together, as if somehow, someday, there might be more than fighting and fucking between them. As if … as if she was some maid to swoon over a man.
Not that he wanted any woman like that. Oh, he’d made it all too damn clear, time and again, what he thought of women. Starkad trusted no one, least of all females. At best, he seemed to tolerate Hervor. From time to time, sure, he lusted after her, and for certain that filled her with a pleasant warmth.
But could there ever be more than that?
No.
Even were it not for the weight between them, the secrets she kept. The hidden pains he carried. Maybe not … unless … beneath all that … Did he care for her more than he wanted to admit? He had bargained away his precious runeblade to Gylfi on her behalf.
But if he loved her in some way, he hardly showed it.
Hervor grimaced. Sitting and waiting ill suited her. Stewing in her own thoughts availed her naught and was like to lead her to places she did not really wish to go.
She pushed herself up again. It wasn’t too late to go after Starkad. She had to be quiet, stay low and …
A fresh pressure built in her. That heat behind her eyes returned, scorching her brain faster than before.
Again that painful bubble in her chest, like her heart was going to explode. She pitched forward onto hands and knees and gasped.
Flames filled her eyes. And through them, in them, memories of another life unfolded.
21
With her scarf removed, Ilona’s breath turned into ice crystals the moment it left her mouth. At the end of the frozen tundra, the town wall rose, seeming to radiate alienness. Construction wrought by jotunnar after the Vanir had driven them from Midgard. Oft as she had heard the tales among the seidkonur, Ilona had never expected to lay eyes upon this Glaesisvellir.
Felman, ever their faithful protector, trod ahead and called out to the gate guards, pleading for sanctuary, while the rest of them waited, watching.
Seskef drew up beside her, his son—boy had no more than fifteen winters—trailing a few steps behind him. The prince had grown solemn since the death of his wife. Oh, how the woman had glared at Ilona, knowing all too well the games she played with her husband. Well, life was a tafl match, and seduction was a witch’s best tool, after all. Far less dangerous than the Art and, generally, more successful.
A few drops of toxin in the woman’s mead and she had slowly fallen ill over the winter. Not surprising, given the difficulty of the crossing in winter. Ilona had guided three ships’ worth of men across the plains and the fells of Kvenland, and north, where they’d had to claim more ships. One could not, after all, simply climb the wall.
And so, on the White Sea, they’d slain men and taken ships, vessels hardly worthy of such a long voyage. Even skirting the coast, the going had been rough. The storms would crop up without warning, fierce blizzards that all but blinded them.
I
n such a tempest, the beast had risen from the depths.
Through the darkness and the snows, no one had seen it clearly, though they’d heard its roar. The sound seem apt to sunder eardrums, and all Ilona’s Art had felt like naught more than a petty candle compared to the might of that benthic creature. One of Jormangandr’s brood, Ilona had no doubt, and the serpent had swamped one ship, leaving naught behind but kindling.
Ironic, that the Skjöldungar’s symbol was a sea serpent.
Seskef had grieved their losses, even as his wife fell sicker and sicker. As Ilona complained she had not the supplies to treat the illness. As she fed the woman more poisons in place of healing draughts. And in the end, a bitter and broken Seskef had tossed his wife’s corpse into the depths.
But that seemed long ago now. Now, they had marched long moons across this tundra. Most nights, Seskef came to her tent. The thing about seduction was … you wanted to string it out. Make a man wait for it until his stones were ready to burst from need. But you could not string it out forever. Eventually, you had to let a man taste what he’d been waiting for, or else you’d find all your charms only served to frustrate him.
And so Ilona found ever more creative ways to please him in his bed and, when he pleased her so thoroughly, bits of her energy, her life force, would seep into him. Had he been more adept as a sorcerer, maybe he’d have been able to read those bits, uncover some of her crimes. But either he did not see or he did not understand, for again and again he came to her, desperate in his need.
And now … a pair of jotunnar threw open the gates of Glaesisvellir and Ilona found herself imagining another pair of such mighty gates. The gates of Hel.
No.
Frivolous thought, pointless and detrimental. Fear served no one. They had come this far and there was no turning back, not for any of them. Sooner or later, Seskef would name her his new queen. Before that happened, it was best the prince had a kingdom to call his own. Ilona would see to that.
