Days of Frozen Hearts (Runeblade Saga Book 3)

by Matt Larkin

  Here, they worked to build up the great hall from which she and Seskef would soon rule. The prince took little interest in the hall, leaving its designs in her hands. That suited her well enough, and she took particular interest in ensuring they built a mighty fire pit in the hall’s center. The warding stones around this pit she had carved with runes to protect against the mist and encourage Fire vaettr to keep the flames ever lit.

  Dwelling on such things sent a warm ripple through her chest, the spirit within shifting in a not entirely unpleasant manner. It pushed at her more and more, until she’d given in one night and touched the flames, sent them spiraling around her hands and dancing before her eyes.

  It had rewarded her with a rush of ecstasy and dreams so vivid she’d woken and climbed into Seskef’s bed just to sate her own needs. And oh, how she so wanted to touch those flames in the pit right there.

  Forcing the thought away, Ilona knelt to examine her work on the stones. With runes, everything should be perfect. These symbols meant more to beings on the other side of the Veil than they did to earthly creatures. Why the vaettir cared about symbols, no seidkon had ever quite managed to explain.

  She brushed her fingers over them, or tried to. Instead, her hand drifted toward the fire in the pit. She shuddered, jerking her hand backward. Was that her own weak will giving in? Or had the Fire vaettr forced her to do that?

  Damn it. It had become hard to say where one ended and the other began. With a shake of her head, she fled the hall and headed toward the waters in the caldera’s heart.

  Prince Seskef, as usual, waded in the hot spring, a dour look on his face that kept all others at bay.

  Ilona had looked into the Otherworlds, though, and was not easily dismayed by aught born on Midgard. She doffed her dress—a lightweight one was all she needed in this warm valley—and let it fall onto the sand near the spring. The actual water was ringed by a white rock that carried the heat, warming her feet as she drew nigh.

  Seskef stared at her during her approach, so she made sure to slow and accentuate her every move. At last, she dipped a toe into the spring, shuddering at the delightful warmth of it. Again, that stirring in her breast as the Fire vaettr welcomed the heat. It knew this warmth came from liquid flames beneath the land. It knew it and loved it, like a taste of its own world.

  Fire is life, after all.

  Slowly, she slipped down into the waters, arching her back as she did so. Mostly for Seskef’s benefit—though the heat was truly luxurious. She let herself sink down until only her head rested above water, then fixed her gaze upon the prince.

  Seskef drifted closer to her, his own movements lethargic as well, though his eyes held no trace of fatigue. They looked almost … Otherworldly. “The men build this place up, as you so desire.”

  “Yes, I quite like what we’re building here. This place is a hidden refuge, safe from all the ravages of Midgard.”

  “For now.” He moved until he stood just before her, waist-deep in the waters. Steam rose off his skin as the cool air hit it.

  “For now,” she admitted. Grabbing his wrists, she pulled him down to sit beside her.

  He did not resist her, his gaze locked on her face. “What of the other plans?”

  Ilona stifled a sigh. “Peace, my prince.” She straddled him, then wrapped a hand around his cock. As expected, he was more than ready. She eased him inside herself, forestalling any further comment.

  Instead, he grasped her hips as she worked, squeezing just hard enough.

  Yes, she’d be pleased enough with this man as a husband.

  When he’d finished, she drifted away to sit beside him again, flush with relief herself. For once, the Fire vaettr inside her seemed calmed. The sex and the warm waters both soothed it, she supposed. Either way, any reprieve from the pressure it put on her was welcome.

  “I have given this much thought,” Seskef said a bare moment later.

  What the … ? Really? Shouldn’t the man’s mind have been rather empty so soon after … Ilona barely kept a glare off her face.

  “I see but one way to ensure the resurgence of our kingdom. The Niflung sorcerers are nigh to immortal. We need such powers as well, for myself, my warriors.”

  Ilona rubbed her face. Now she did groan. “Binding a Fire vaettr might extend your life a little, true, but the brighter a fire burns, the more quickly it burns out. Few with such bindings live exceptionally long lives.” There were rumors about some of the highest of the pyromancers having lived many lifetimes. And then there was Loge, the first of the pyromancers, or so stories claimed. So there must have been a way, even if Ilona had neither the knowledge nor strength to pull it off. “It would require binding spirits of more power than I think your people are like to be able to control.”

  “Yes. I have thought long on your complaints about drawing the Fire vaettir from this place and binding them.”

  Indeed, she had voiced a great many complaints—warnings it would destroy the warmth of this shelter not least among them. Never, of course, had she come close to admitting she wasn’t even certain she could successfully bind the vaettir.

  “If we have the power, we have no reason to care if this valley cools. I need not live for centuries, Ilona. I need but the strength to survive crushing wounds and the power to raze the lands of my enemies and claim them for myself. To burn mist away, as do the Lofdar.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. The Lofdar had an army. It had numerous pyromancers, many more experienced than her, to say naught of Loge himself. All guiding the flames, and all struggling to remain human while doing so.

  “This place,” Seskef said, “you were right, it does offer us what we need. Except what we need from it is not somewhere to hide. Take the power in this land and make us, all of us, like you. Like the Lofdar prince. Make us strong.”

  “You yourself are a sorcerer, are you not?”

  “Not strong enough to perform such a ritual without your guidance, and you know it. But yet … if you deny me, indeed, I will still attempt this.”

  By the fires of Muspelheim, was that what she sounded like to Loge? Was this madness? Was it …

  Somewhere, deep within her chest, her vaettr stirred. It assured her this would work. It would help her accomplish it. After all, its brethren would gladly accept freedom into Midgard.

  And like that, Seskef’s plan began to rarify in her mind. In flame, she could forge the last of the Skjöldungar into weapons that might strike down all their foes.

  Fire is life.

  And she would give these people new lives. Why had she even hesitated before? Cowardice? Weakness? What a fool she’d been to worry over the words of old pyromancers like Loge. She had the strength she needed—locked inside her own breast.

  And, too, sealed within a sword—Seskef had brought a runeblade here. Forged by dverg smiths out of orichalcum and the binding of souls, few powers on Midgard could match a runeblade. It could serve as a catalyst, a focus.

  “Acts of such power …” She felt her mouth moving, though she could not have said where the words had come from. “They require sacrifices. The greater the sacrifice, the more power one can evoke. What will you sacrifice, my prince?”

  Seskef rose to stand dripping before her. “Aught. I will trade aught necessary for revenge.”

  “Then you shall have it.” Was that even her voice? “You shall have all the power you could ever desire.”

  29

  Starkad shook Hervor, but the shieldmaiden only moaned. It was taking longer and longer to pull her out of these visions. Whatever the ghost had done to her, he needed to find a way to break the effect, and fast. Soon, evening would settle upon them, and with it, the ghosts.

  “Hervor.”

  Her eyes fluttered open but didn’t seem to focus.

  Starkad patted her cheek. “Hervor, come on. We’ve lost a lot of daylight. Come on. It’s going to get dark again soon, we have no time …”

  She groaned, then scrubbed a hand over her fa
ce. Somehow, every time he saw that missing finger on her hand, it still came as a shock. She should have had a better life than this …

  Damn. This was hardly the time for him to fall into such moroseness. “Hervor.”

  “I’m awake.”

  She rolled over onto her side, coughed, and then looked up at him. The way she was looking at him now … like she did sometimes at night, when she came to his tent. But why now?

  Starkad cleared his throat and stood. “It’ll be dark soon, so—”

  “I heard you the first time.” She pushed herself up, scowling, then rose. “They, uh … Ilona and Seskef, they called Fire vaettir out of the spring and the valley. She intended to use Skofnung to bind these vaettir inside Seskef and his people.”

  Starkad unslung the runeblade from his shoulder and pulled it from the scabbard so he could inspect it. It was rosy gold in color, with perfectly etched runes that meant naught to him. “So the sword is the key?”

  “Maybe. I didn’t see the actual ritual. I just felt her plan. She said something about a sacrifice to enact it all.”

  “The altar.”

  Hervor nodded.

  Starkad glanced up at the sky. Not so much time left before the ghosts would begin to walk once again. He slung the blade back over his shoulder. “We need to move.”

  They plodded back toward the altar, the snows impeding their progress. Starkad leapt over the rise and down into the lava tube. His feet skidded on the ice coating that tube, and he slid along it for several feet before managing to stop his descent.

  When he glanced behind, Hervor was climbing down more cautiously, with her back to him. She dropped down into the tube, then moved to join him.

  Torch out before him, Starkad led the way down the tunnel. Not far in, the ice gave way to stone, making the going much easier.

  Just outside, the wind had begun to howl like some angry beast. Starkad scowled. Ahead, they came to the altar. Hervor trod up to it, ran her hand along the obsidian surface, then looked to him.

  Starkad shrugged.

  “So we’re here,” Hervor said. Pointlessly.

  Scowling, he paced around the altar. This witch Ilona had made some sacrifice upon this thing … but the Old Kingdoms had fallen eight hundred years ago. Any blood spilled had long since turned to dust, and naught he could see marred the altar.

  Hervor cleared her throat. “I assumed you had some plan for when we got here.”

  He cast her a warning glare. “I am no sorcerer to dabble in the forbidden Art.”

  “And yet you know far more of it than most men.”

  With a grimace, he looked back to the altar. Cursed as he was, Starkad found himself oft enough embroiled in one mystery of the Otherworlds or another. Nevertheless, those were challenges he bumbled through, not areas he actually knew aught of. Maybe Hervor ought to have realized that, but to speak it aloud would only serve to further enflame her obvious fears. And maybe his own growing dread.

  Because despite all Starkad had seen, he had never faced a foe like this flame wraith before. Prince Seskef was an enemy with neither blood nor body to be slain. A power against which Starkad was not certain he could win. And now, they were trapped in this cursed valley with the ghosts. When night fell …

  Beyond the tunnel, a mind-rending wail erupted, the gates of Hel themselves sounding breached.

  Seskef had awakened. The wraith prince would be hunting them now.

  Damn it. He had to focus. There had to be some clue here, some sign of a way to break this curse.

  “Starkad ….”

  Ilona had sacrificed someone on this altar. Starkad knelt beside it, holding the torch close to inspect the obsidian. It was a single, perfect slab of rock, as tall as his waist and half again as long. The only markings were those runes. He pushed aside the skeleton leaning against the altar. Behind it lay just more of the same runes.

  Meaningless symbols to him. Except …

  Some of the runes looked a bit like those marking Skofnung. Had Ilona carved it specifically to match the runeblade? Starkad pulled Skofnung out to compare them. There, along that line on the altar, the runes were a match. If only he could read the damned things.

  “Starkad!”

  He looked up sharply at Hervor’s voice. The ghost witch now drifted toward them. In the darkness of the tunnel, a man might have mistaken her for the living. Sensual in her movements, lithe, her eyes holding a hint of mischief. And a hint of wariness.

  Hervor had her hand on Tyrfing’s hilt. “Stay back, vaettr!”

  But the ghost came on, unperturbed, save perhaps for a brief glare cast at Hervor. Instead, she came up to the altar. Starkad backed away, giving her space. Skofnung might disrupt the ghost and send it away, but what good would that do if she wasn’t attacking them? What did she intend here?

  Ilona ran her fingers along the altar’s surface, much as Hervor had done moments before. Then she looked to Starkad. Looked to the runeblade in his hand.

  “I don’t understand.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  Again the wraith prince’s wail rang out, this time much closer.

  Ilona slapped the altar with the bottom of her fist. Then she repeated the gesture.

  She wanted him to destroy the altar? Could it be that simple? Could he break the curse by merely smashing the instrument that had created it?

  Flickering flames reflected off the entrance to the tunnel.

  “Starkad!” Hervor jerked Tyrfing free of its sheath. “He’s coming.”

  Again, Ilona slapped the altar.

  Starkad advanced to it.

  From the corner of his eye, Seskef appeared, shrouded in flame and yet made of darkness that no light could reach. The fiery specter blocked their escape from the tunnel, closing it. Its smoldering sword again appeared in its hand.

  Its eyes lingered on Skofnung, filled with such rage Starkad felt ill to behold it. No mortal creature could contain that much hatred within itself.

  Smash the altar and break the curse? Or make it worse?

  Hervor shrieked and raced for the wraith prince. The ghost himself dashed for her, covering ground even more quickly.

  Fuck it.

  Starkad reversed his grip on Skofnung and slammed it straight down into the center of the altar. The runeblade bit through the obsidian like butter, sliding in halfway to its crossguard.

  A crack erupted from the altar, black ichor oozing from that rent. At the same time, an enormous pressure built inside Starkad’s head, pushing on his ears. The air around him shimmered.

  And then the pressure burst like a wave crashing over him. It flung him backward, through the air, to slam into the wall.

  The impact stole all breath from his lungs and filled his vision with bright white light.

  And then naught else.

  GROANING, Starkad managed to roll over onto his back. His head was throbbing from where it had hit the wall. Everything seemed to dip and sway as if he stood on the deck of a ship at sea. His stomach lurched, and he retched, spilling what little he’d eaten out over the tunnel floor.

  His ears were ringing, his pulse beating heavy in his head. He spit out the lingering taste of bile.

  He needed about a barrel-full of mead. That and twelve hours’ sleep without a single fucking dream, if he could manage it.

  As the ringing in his ears finally diminished, he heard Hervor being noisily sick herself. He managed to look up, blinking, to see her lying on her side, clutching her temples.

  There was light in the tunnel, coming from his own fallen torch beside him but also from a half dozen torches affixed to the walls in sconces. Those hadn’t been there before. What in the gates of Hel?

  And the tunnel, it was warm. Hot and muggy even. Grunting, he tugged away the laces of his fur cloak to give himself some airflow. Damn, but it was hot in here.

  Hervor groaned, then rolled over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. Tyrfing lay a few feet from her, discarded. Starkad lurched over to where she lay, then offere
d her a hand.

  After a brief moment, she took it, and he pulled her up. She paused, then reached for Tyrfing, but stopped short. Her face a mask of confusion. “I did not kill anyone …”

  Tyrfing’s curse.

  “If I pick it up now …”

  Starkad scratched his beard. “I have no idea. I don’t know what happened. Did we break the curse? Are we free?” He glanced back to the altar. Skofnung was still stuck down in it, though the crack no longer broke the altar’s surface. It was as if the sword had slid smoothly into a slot in the top. “What the …”

  Voices rang out from the entrance to the tunnel.

  As Hervor scrambled to her feet, a dozen men raced in, their armor clinking as they ran. Torchlight glinted off their spears and blades and axes, and the men formed up, surrounding Starkad and Hervor. Living men, thick with sweat and staring at them with hostile gazes. One of them shouted at him in what sounded like Old Northern.

  The Old Tongue?

  Were these the ghosts? Somehow alive again? Their armor looked the same … in fact, one bearing a sword looked like one of the very shades Starkad had fought already.

  Their words were barely comprehensible, especially with several of them all shouting to each other and at Starkad and Hervor at the same time. Behind them, some of the men beckoned with weapons, ordering them to march out of the tunnel. That meaning, at least, was completely clear.

  Hervor moved to snatch up Tyrfing, but one of the men grabbed it before she could.

  “You son of a troll!” she roared. “Return my family’s legacy before—”

  “Hervor!” Starkad snapped. “Best go along until the situation favors us.”

  Now she turned her glare on him. But at least, prodded by a spear, she did walk.

  The men led them outside the tunnel and into the town.

  The sun above glinted brightly, but that was not the oddest thing. An almost oppressive heat filled the valley, and all the snows had melted, leaving behind green trees and bushes and a town filled with men and women and children, all bustling about.

  “What in Hel’s icy crotch?” Hervor managed.