Days of Frozen Hearts (Runeblade Saga Book 3)

by Matt Larkin

  The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. A faint breeze tickled past her.

  She turned about.

  Ilona drifted out of the shadows, instantly nigh to her. The witch’s face was a mask of rage, eyes gleaming like fire. Hervor fell back a step, but only one, before the ghost’s hand wrapped around her throat.

  The hand felt all too solid. Its grasp cut off Hervor’s air and stole her strength, at once burning and freezing her flesh. She flailed helplessly at the ghost’s grip, but seemed unable to gain purchase on Ilona’s hand.

  Hervor slipped to her knees, desperate to suck down any amount of air but finding none.

  The sheer hatred in Ilona’s eyes was almost beyond Hervor’s ability to fathom. Of course … Because Hervor had murdered Ilona long centuries before. And the ghost had been waiting for revenge for eight hundred years.

  Her vision began to dim at the edges.

  Starkad’s roar sounded far away, as if from a dream. Skofnung’s blade cut straight through Ilona’s ethereal form, and the ghost vanished in a puff of wind.

  Hervor pitched over sideways, clutching her bruised throat and gulping down painful breaths. Each precious lungful of air scorched her throat, but still she couldn’t get enough of it.

  Air.

  Air!

  She didn’t even try to rise. Could barely form a thought.

  “We failed,” Starkad said, though Hervor wasn’t even looking at him. “Everything we did … and the ghosts are still here.”

  Because … they had created the ghosts. Now. Now, they had. But where had they come from in the first place?

  Hervor’s mind was so muddled. So damned hard to think.

  And then the pressure began to build behind her eyes. The heat in her chest.

  It was happening again.

  A flame surged through her, taunting her with its tormented visions.

  34

  I t wasn’t really her voice, though her mouth said the words.

  Ilona turned—or felt her body turn—away from the obsidian altar and back to Seskef, who stepped forward to inspect it. The craftsmen had worked the stone, but she’d trusted no one else to carve the runes. No, those had to be precise, perfect, in every way. A single misstep in her plans could result in disaster. After all, the fabric of reality was tenuous, and not even an old vaettr could fully predict the ramifications of unleashing its power without the proper constraints in place.

  And Ilona intended to call upon a great many vaettir to perform this feat. She would need to pierce the Veil deeply and pull forth a vast number of Fire vaettir out of Muspelheim. And then …

  Seskef knelt beside the altar, running his fingers over the runes. Slowly, he rose, shaking his head. “I cannot do it. Not him.”

  Oh, he was so very close. He stood upon the precipice and gazed down into the inferno that raged below. He had but to take one step more and that conflagration would claim him, body and soul. And they would all be freed.

  Ilona ran her fingers over the back of his neck. “Would not any warrior among you willingly—nay, eagerly—go to his death in battle against your foes? Would not you or Bedwigius lay down your lives for victory?”

  “This is different, this …”

  “He would not be the first man sacrificed to cruel and capricious gods in this war. Such is the demand of the greater powers we must invoke if we wish to claim victory. The flames must have fuel on which to feed.”

  “He’s my son!”

  “And if he is brave, he would willingly offer his life. If he is a coward, afraid to die for our cause …”

  Seskef shuddered. “If he is a coward, he is not truly my son. Hmmm.” He cast a heavy glare her way. “Damn you, witch.”

  Oh. She was far more than any witch now. Whatever Ilona may have been, Scyld was much greater. She was the incarnation of flame, lighting the darkness and burning away all creation until naught but ash remained. The inevitable end of all life.

  And it would begin by burning away the Niflungar and all the other enemies Prince Seskef might choose to turn on.

  “Damn you. Bring him.”

  “Good … Now I shall deliver vengeance for all you have lost.” She chuckled, the sound bubbling up from some dark recess Ilona could not begin to look into. That was not her voice. It was not her laughter.

  THE BOY SCREAMED for his father, wailed for Seskef as the men bound him in iron chains. In his own room, no less. The part of her that was still Ilona looked on, grimacing. Bedwigius was frightened and, knowing what the vaettr inside her planned, she did not blame him.

  He should be scared.

  His suffering would reach beyond the bounds of death and immolate his soul, just to feed the flames.

  But it was necessary. Even could she have stopped it, Ilona wouldn’t have. She had promised Seskef his vengeance, and this alone was the way to deliver it. The boy had the blood of Halfdan the Old, ancient, powerful blood. Besides, if the prince wished to reap the powers of the World of Fire, he must be the one to pay the greatest price.

  There was an order, even in the primal chaos of the inferno.

  “Bring him to the altar and bind him there.”

  Grim-faced, the two men exchanged glances with one another. No, they did not savor such a task. Scyld let the fire dance behind her eyes, matching their dark their looks with one yet darker. With the promise of the eternal flame behind it.

  Both men quickly lowered their gazes and ushered Bedwigius forward.

  “Father!” Bediwgius wailed as they dragged him through the great hall.

  Ilona followed and found Seskef resting upon his throne, head in his hand and refusing to look on as the warriors half-carried his son from the room.

  She drifted to the prince’s side and rested a hand upon the crown of his head. “Keep the faith. Feed the flames, and they shall feed your vengeance.”

  The dour look he shot her made Ilona recoil, though her body moved not a muscle. Scyld cared naught for the petty wrath of a mortal. Human anger was a flickering candle compared to the fiery maelstrom in which Scyld had passed the ages. Her anger would incinerate cities, burn out whole kingdoms. Consume the very world.

  “It will soon be time. Wait for the appointed hour, then come, and bring whichever warriors you have chosen to usher in this new age of flame. You and they shall become like gods among men.” Ilona hesitated a bare moment. “Such a transformation must necessarily include pain.”

  “Pain of the body does not concern me.”

  Ilona wanted to say more. To warn him that not only his body but his very soul would feel the lick of flames. Scyld refused to open her mouth. He would understand soon enough.

  After gathering a few supplies, Ilona walked the path down to the lava tube. Very soon, Seskef would follow, his warriors ready to receive their gift. Before they arrived, she needed to have the ritual well underway. Such a casting exceeded the power of most any mortal sorceress, but Scyld had almost total control of her host now. She allowed Ilona a measure of freedom only because the sorceress cooperated and might lend her meager strength to Scyld’s own. In such an endeavor, she could use every bit of power available.

  Once the flames took Bedwigius, once his body and soul began to burn, it ought to grant her enough power to pull her brethren through the Veil. They had waited long for the chance to scorch this world. Ages upon ages, waiting for a mortal willing to go so far, to risk so very much for power.

  She followed the lava tube into the tunnel.

  The two warriors had already bound Bedwigius to the altar, and he had given over his struggles, instead staring defiantly at her. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the redness around his eyes and the streaks tears had left on his cheeks. Just a boy. But then … all mortals were like children, weren’t they?

  But … what in the eternal flame? Skofnung already stuck out of the altar. She had expected Seskef to drive it in during the ritual. Had he misunderstood? And had he not had the blade with him when she had just seen him? She t
ried to think back, but her mind had been elsewhere at the time. Maybe she was just used to seeing him with the runeblade and had not noticed.

  “Where did that come from?”

  One the warriors shook his head. “Was already here when we came in.”

  Ilona murmured. It wasn’t like to cause any problem … She supposed it could be there from the beginning. What mattered was connecting the sword to the altar. She had carved the runes into the obsidian specifically to siphon power from the souls bound within that blade.

  Everything had to align perfectly, but connecting the two during the ritual had been as much about showmanship as aught else. She could always use another blade to actually kill Bedwigius.

  “So be it. Go from here. You do not wish to remain once I begin.”

  They needed no second invitation to flee.

  When they had gone, Ilona went to a bladder filled with blood she’d left resting against the wall. She’d had to drain two men already to get so much. Most of the runes she’d already painted, but there remain a few final touches to complete.

  First … She dipped her fingers in the blood and walked back to where Bedwigius lay bound on the obsidian.

  “I’m going to fucking kill you, bitch! Should have been you we fed to Gothmundr, instead of Felman. You should’ve died.”

  Scyld felt the corner of her mouth twist into a smirk. She leaned close to his face. “Do you know … Ilona killed your mother, boy?”

  His face went slack with shock for a bare instant. Then he lunged at her, screaming with rage.

  With one hand, Scyld pressed on his chest and pushed him back down onto the altar. Then she began tracing runes along his forehead, his cheeks, and his chest. “You may take comfort in the knowledge that Ilona too suffers, denied sovereignty of her own body.”

  The boy howled in impotent rage, gnashed his teeth, actually seemed intent to bite her.

  Scyld chuckled.

  Then she began her incantation. The Supernal words echoed in her mind, reverberating against the walls of reality even as they began to reshape it. In mere moments, she felt them. Others, vaettir, pressing against the Veil. Drawn by her words, watching the Mortal Realm, as they did when the mood took them.

  Always, it lay just beyond reach.

  Save for times like this, when a mortal sorcerer or sorceress chose to open the way.

  The power surged through her as she chanted, rising up like embers rekindled, flaring to life once again. It burned her with glorious flames from within.

  Ilona writhed and gasped somewhere inside, overcome by pain and ecstasy.

  On and on Scyld chanted, twinning her voice and power and soul with Ilona’s. She could not do this alone, after all.

  Across the Veil, the gathered vaettir reached a fever pitch, swirling and bubbling, ready to burst forth. Ilona slipped a bone knife from a sheath at her belt, slowly drawing up beside Bedwigius.

  Almost.

  Almost …

  A shadow fell across her from the entrance to the tunnel. A presence that did not belong drew close to the circle. Ilona spun back to see a woman, the shieldmaiden from before, still bearing Tyrfing. Scyld took a step back. Naught could be allowed to disrupt the ritual.

  Not now. Not even she could predict what might happen if she were interrupted. The fabric of reality had already become porous. If she didn’t control it …

  The bitch was looking at her sacrifice.

  No. “Stay away from him!”

  Interrupting the chant to speak carried risk, but if the woman stopped the sacrifice, they were all doomed to the chaos that would soon consume them.

  But that woman just roared and charged at the altar.

  The shieldmaiden had no idea what she was about to unleash.

  35

  Hervor pushed herself up off the freezing tube floor.

  Immediately, Starkad’s roar of pain hit her, and she stumbled to her feet.

  Prince Seskef—the wraith—had clipped Starkad with that blade of fire, sending the man stumbling away. Before Hervor could even react, the wraith dashed forward with inhuman speed. Starkad flung himself to the floor.

  The incandescent blade shrieked as it struck the tunnel wall. The tube melted where the blade struck, not so much as slowing the weapon’s passage. Starkad scrambled away, brought Skofnung up to bear, and spun around to face the wraith again.

  Already Seskef dashed at him once more. This time, Starkad parried on Skofnung, bellowing as he did so. Sparks leapt off the wraith’s flaming blade, singeing Starkad’s face and arms, drawing a fresh gasp from him.

  Hervor lurched toward them, but she was unsteady on her feet. They had never broken the curse. These ghosts were all still here, all trying to kill them, probably still caught in the loop.

  But they had stopped Ilona’s ritual. She had saved the sacrifice, saved Bedwigius. Why? What had gone wrong?

  She jerked Tyrfing free of its sheath. Unsteady or not, she had to help Starkad. Her friend fell back against the relentless assault of the flame wraith. The prince shrieked and bellowed its unearthly cry. Its brand was carving up the tube in trails of molten rock. A single swipe of that would cut clean through Starkad.

  And the man was slowing, exhausted before this even began.

  Seskef focused almost all his attention on Starkad. Hervor stumbled toward the pair.

  Ilona’s ghost stepped from the darkness once more, before Hervor could reach her friend. The ghost pointed a gaunt finger at Hervor, her face locked in silent accusation. Hervor had murdered her.

  Starkad had murdered Seskef.

  They had interrupted the ritual.

  The ritual …

  Ilona had intended to bind Fire vaettir to Seskef and his warriors, make them immortal. She’d called up the vaettir … but had no sacrifice. Died herself before completing the ritual.

  The ghost drifted in on Hervor.

  They could not die now. No matter how many times Hervor banished them with Tyrfing, the ghosts returned. Trapped in their time loop … But the ritual failed. It was never intended to create a time loop.

  Hervor had interrupted it. And left reality broken, as Ilona had feared.

  “Odin’s godsdamned balls!” she shouted at Ilona.

  They had … always interrupted the ritual. Ilona had no sacrifice, the power she called upon went wild. Cursed herself and her people into the time loop. Hervor had caused all this in the first place … Except … that didn’t make any fucking sense. How did it start? Why was the ritual interrupted before she had even come here?

  Shit. Her head was starting to pound.

  Ilona lunged at her, perhaps intent to choke the life from her again. Hervor snarled and whipped Tyrfing up, cut through the ghost, and turned it to vapor once again.

  She’d always stopped the sacrifice … and Starkad had met Scyld—Bedwigius—at the halls of Godmund. And he’d come here … The Fire vaettir had not gotten their sacrifice.

  Starkad gasped, leapt over that flaming brand, and hit the wall with his shoulder. He scrambled to evade the flame wraith’s blade again. Seskef would kill him, very soon.

  They were like goats to the slaughter.

  Sacrifices …

  Well, she wasn’t about to let them become the sacrifices. Oh. And who better to pay the Fire vaettir’s price? The very witch who’d started all this, who’d called upon the dark powers. Hervor dashed around the obsidian altar, dropped to one knee beside the skeleton there.

  “I know whose bones you are.” She grabbed the dusty, rotten things and dropped them on the altar.

  Starkad cried out again, and fresh flames scorched him.

  Flames.

  Fire vaettir.

  “Starkad!” Hervor shrieked. “Lure him here!” She stepped forward, in front of the altar, Tyrfing up to bear. “Join me! Trust me!”

  Gasping, Starkad scrambled along the floor to her side. He’d dropped both his swords in the chaos, but he didn’t pause to grab either. “G-give me Tyrfing …”
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  She ignored that. “Get ready. One more—”

  Ilona appeared again, face a mask of rage as she closed in.

  The flame wraith streaked toward them so fast his form seemed a blur. His glowing brand trailed behind him, showering sparks in its wake.

  Hervor waited a bare instant and then shoved Starkad to one side, pushing off him to throw herself in the opposite direction. She hit the floor even as Seskef swept that massive brand down on the spot they had occupied.

  His smoldering weapon struck the bones and ignited them, sheared through the altar, and carved out a chunk of the floor.

  Ilona’s ghost burst into flames, her wail echoing through the tunnel. Seskef faltered. His flaming brand crumbled into ashes and blew away as if a breeze swept through the tube.

  The bones ought to have made a tiny fire, but the flames rose higher and higher, becoming a bonfire so bright Hervor had to look away. Other wails joined Ilona’s, all the ghosts shrieking in Otherworldly torment.

  Hervor scrambled away from the ever-growing flame where the altar had once stood. The blaze separated her from Starkad. Was he hurt? Had he made it?

  There. He was crawling along the floor, making his way back to Skofnung.

  All at once, the bonfire dwindled down to embers, leaving them in nigh to total darkness once again.

  No flaming wraith. No sign of Ilona. Even their torch was out.

  “Starkad?” Her voice almost broke. She sounded like some pathetic wretch. Under the circumstances, he probably wouldn’t even notice.

  “I live.”

  So … she had done it. She had broken the curse by sacrificing Ilona to her own godsdamned ritual. The ground beneath Hervor felt warm. Given the recent blaze, she hadn’t noticed it at first. But this was … heat. Like she’d felt here in the past.

  A torch crackled to life down the tunnel, and she looked up sharply. That wasn’t Starkad holding it.

  Starkad rose then, blade in hand. “Scyld.”

  The burned man held a torch in one hand, his eyes smoldering with flames within. His smirk was … twisted. Something vile lurked behind those eyes, she knew it did. And with Ilona’s memories, Hervor could too easily guess what.