by Matt Larkin
Days of Frozen Hearts
Matt Larkin
DAYS OF FROZEN HEARTS
Runeblade Saga: Book Three
MATT LARKIN
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, businesses, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2017 MATT LARKIN
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Published by Incandescent Phoenix Books
mattlarkinbooks.com
For Juhi. Thank you.
Contents
Maps
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part II
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part III
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Part IV
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Skalds’ Tribe
Author’s Ramblings
Books by Matt Larkin
Prologue
Atop a rocky knoll, a small fire crackled, holding back the mist. Odin’s knees creaked as he climbed that hill, most of his weight upon Gungnir’s butt. For the midst of summer, the night was brisk, though the cold mattered less to Odin these days than it had in times past.
Loki waited for him here, in the southern ranges of Sviarland, where Odin so oft found himself these days. Oh, Odin wandered all of Midgard, of course. But in Sviarland the chaos of war seemed almost as eternal as the battles waged against Serkland in the far south. And here, thanks to Gylfi, nigh to all the people worshipped the Aesir as gods. The faith had spread far beyond Sviarland, but this land had become a crux, a focal point for events that would decide the fate of mankind. It meant Odin had to lend his hand more oft here, had to ensure events proceeded in a way he could use them.
His blood brother did not turn around at Odin’s approach, though Loki no doubt knew Odin was here. He always seemed to know.
“What do you see in those flames?” Odin asked, settling down across the campfire from the other man.
Loki sat with his legs folded beneath him, hands on his knees. The flames reflected off his crystal blue eyes, dancing in the night. Loki’s faint half-smile might well have been a grimace for all Odin could tell. Despite the many years he’d spent in the man’s company, Loki remained hard to read.
That should have come as no surprise, really. Though he looked decades younger than Odin, Loki was the elder. Much, much older than any Ás. Older even than any of the Vanir had been.
“I see chaos and death,” Loki said at last.
“Mmmm. So naught much changes, really. Chaos and death are all we ever expect from the future. Naught I have achieved thus far has averted Ragnarok.”
Loki offered no answer, other than a deepening of the set of his mouth. As if any answer pained him to so much as think, much less to say.
Well enough, in any event. Odin had other things on his mind this night. “I find long walks give one much time to muse on the past and future.”
Still no answer, but then, that hadn’t been a question.
Odin cleared his throat. “These days, I walk a great deal.”
“And have you learned much from it?”
“I’d like to think so. Though I find I am left with a puzzle, a mystery I cannot unravel.”
“Only one?”
Odin grunted in acknowledgment. No matter how far he wandered, how much he learned, his knowledge remained a blade of grass in the vast plains of the unknown. Still. One could but continue to try. “You taught the Lofdar pyromancy—the Art of Fire.”
“Some would draw a subtle distinction between the two.”
Odin waved that away. “Faced with the Children of the Mist, you armed my ancestors. Created the first pyromancers. Is that not so?”
Loki hesitated a moment before nodding.
“And now the Aesir are faced off against those same foes, and yet you do not, have never, introduced a single one of us to your Art.”
Loki sighed, rubbing his palms against his knees. “That was another time. Another age. And I cannot say, even now, in hindsight, whether I acted as I ought to have. Sorcery was more common back then. It is best we leave the mistakes of the past dead and buried.”
“Would that I could. Remnants of the Old Kingdoms wake once more into the world of men. I contend with sorcerers.”
“There are fewer of them, lesser in power than they were in those days. And either way, I cannot risk repeating my mistakes. I notice you raise the subject of where the pyromancers came from, yet do not bother to ask where they all went.”
Odin paused. The Old Kingdoms had died out, the Lofdar among them. But true, he had not quite considered what had happened to the pyromancers specifically. “So, then, where did they go?”
Loki rose, shaking his head. “When you find the answer to that question, you’ll know why I no longer bind man and flame together.”
Odin too stood, less gracefully, perhaps. “One way or another, I must claim the legacy of the Old Kingdoms. I must have all the weapons possible to face this final battle.”
“The runeblades? Seek them if you must. Just remember, like the Art of Fire, such relics wrought from the Art can burn both foe and wielder.”
Odin grunted. As long as his enemies burned first, naught else mattered.
Part I
Tenth Moon
Year 28, Age of the Aesir
Four Moons After Days of Bloody Thrones
1
After passing the winter here, the Yngling hall at Upsal had almost started to feel like home. Strange thought, given that Hervor had sworn an oath to bring down the Ynglings at any cost. And here she was, sipping mead and leaning back against the table, cheering the spectacle with the rest of them.
Benches had been pushed aside in the center of the hall, making way for the contestants. Ecgtheow the Tiny had both arms locked around Starkad, bearing him down to the ground. It looked like the big man was finally going to pin his opponent. Despite all Starkad’s speed, Ecgtheow was larger and stronger than … well, almost anyone.
Ecgtheow grunted, driving Starkad down. Starkad tilted over backward. As he did so, he twisted around so fast Hervor barely followed. Suddenly Ecgtheow was in midair, flipping over Starkad’s shoulder. Hervor’s mouth fell open the instant before the big man hit the dusty ground. A horrendous oomph escaped Ecgtheow and the man lay dazed.
Huh. Hervor had trained at wrestling since she was seven winters old. By the time she was nine, she could beat boys her age, a few even older than her. She still couldn’t have pulled off what Starkad just had. The man never ceased to amaze.
King Aun raised his drinking horn. “Eightarms!” The others echoed his cheer throughout the hall. Everyone was in good spirits, what with summer now underway. Summer meant time for crops a
nd safer fishing and, of course, raids. Well … except Aun refused to send his people raiding. The new Yngling king claimed Upsal had lost enough men in the wars.
Man was a craven, no doubt. These Ynglings were like weeds. Yngvi and Alf were dead. Alf’s son Ochilaik was dead. Yngvi’s sons Jorund and Eikkr were dead. Hervor had helped most of them to the grave. And now here was Aun, some cousin to the slain who popped up in the western reaches of Upsal, almost into Dalar.
Man had come to claim the throne when there was no one left alive to challenge him.
Maybe Hervor ought to have killed him too, but … She’d already held her oath fulfilled.
So much blood.
Yngvi’s man had slain Hervor’s father, but she’d killed the murderer and the king’s son both. What more could Father expect from her? Was she to scour every snowy mound and bog in Sviarland to make sure not a single Yngling pest survived?
No, she had seen enough of war in any event. War had cost her friends, family, even her own body … her right arm might never again be as strong as it had been. She’d spent the past moons trying to heal, trying to train to fight left-handed.
And by Odin’s balls, that was an ordeal.
Besides, she’d given her new oath to Starkad, promised to help the man recover a runeblade from Jotunheim. Odin preserve her against such folly.
Starkad helped Ecgtheow rise, and the two plodded over to join Hervor on the benches. Each took a turn with the drinking horn. A long turn, in fact.
Finally, Starkad wiped his mouth on his sleeve and tossed the empty horn on the table. “So, then. What brings you to Upsal? Should you not be seeing to that wife of yours?”
That drew a wry grin from the big man. “Oh, she’s been well seen to. Thick in the belly already, you know, and no complaints, far as that goes.”
“And so you left her alone, and with child?” Hervor asked. “How courteous.”
“She’s not alone. You said it yourself, she’s with the child.”
Starkad snickered and Hervor frowned. Naught amusing about the situation she could see.
Ecgtheow groaned and rolled his eyes. “You were more entertaining as a man, I think. Ylva is with her parents. Actually, that’s why I’ve come. See now, the throne of Ostergotland lies vacant since the death of Haki. Don’t suppose it’s like to stay that way overlong, though.”
Starkad leaned on the table, frowning. “Still no one has risen up?”
Ecgtheow snorted. “More mead, wench!” he shouted at one of the slaves. “As yet, no one has held the throne. Men have tried though, and more than a few. Haki made himself king by force of arms and force of character.”
“All kings are so made,” Starkad said. “It is only their heirs who think themselves entitled to aught simply for being born.”
Hervor took the horn when the slave brought it, sipped it, then handed it on to Ecgtheow. “I heard the tales of Haki. He was fearless back then. That’s why I joined him.” One of the reasons.
“True enough. Haki, he earned his fame, no mistake.” Ecgtheow paused to take another swig. “But. Now he’s dead, his brother’s dead, and his sons lack the strength to hold the throne. And now, more than one man had risen, blood of old Gauti and all that.”
Gauti was well-famed, though Hervor had little memory of him. She’d grown up on stories of how Haki had overthrown the old king. Tossed him off his own walls, down into the sea, where the man had broken on rocks. Haki claimed he’d ended the man’s whole dynasty.
But Ecgtheow was no doubt right, plenty of men yet lived from Gauti’s line. And women. Through her mother’s side, Hervor would have been a distant relation herself, though she had no ambition to try to become queen of aught.
“Then shouldn’t you be in Ostergotland where the action is?” she asked.
“True enough, and so I should. And you two, as well. Hervor, if you convince Jarl Bjalmar to join with Hrethel, we’ll have the strength to take the throne without overmuch bloodshed. And Starkad … the jarl will pay you a horde of riches and more to fight for him.”
“I can’t,” Starkad said before Hervor could answer. “I have a prior commitment to Gylfi. You of all people know one does not keep him waiting longer than necessary.”
Ecgtheow grunted. “Fair enough. And you, Hervor? Will you speak with your grandfather?”
She sighed, then shook her head. “I go with Starkad and we plan to leave in but a few days for Holmgard.”
“Bjarmaland! What in the gates of Hel do you want with that awful place? Have you not seen enough of far-flung lands?”
Indeed, she truly had. But her oath to Starkad bound her. “What claim does Hrethel even have to Ostergotland? He was a jarl under Jorund, was he not?”
“A position he inherited from his father-in-law, Swerting. But he was born a man of Ostergotland, and kin to Gauti, same as the other claimants.”
And now Hrethel thought being a jarl under Aun not enough for him? Well, for all that, Hrethel seemed a good enough man. Maybe he’d make a good king. Still, it meant joining in more wars, and surely Sviarland had seen enough of war this past year. Under other circumstances, Hervor might well have asked Grandfather to side with Hrethel.
Of course, Grandfather would do as he damned well pleased. He took counsel only from Gunther, if even him.
Hervor hated to see this matter settled without her … And she had no business being in Holmgard, especially given what her other grandfather had done there. But she’d never break her oath, least of all to Starkad.
Never.
So where did that leave her?
Fucked, more or less. Having to trust Tiny to handle things here. And the big man would put his own fame and glory high above concerns like sparing the kingdom another war. He always put his own fortunes first, same as Hervor, same as anyone with half a mind.
Hervor shook her head. “Just … just remember. Grandfather sheltered us all when things turned against us with Jorund. Take care to recall that friendship.”
Ecgtheow nodded. “I never forget such things.”
“Go with care, my friend,” Starkad said, and clasped Ecgtheow’s arm.
Hervor repeated the gesture.
Ecgtheow smiled as he stood. “May Odin watch over you both.”
“And you,” Hervor said.
Starkad said naught else, but then, that was oft his way. When Ecgtheow had left, the man turned to her. “We can be ready to leave in a few more days. Are you still certain you wish …”
“You don’t have to ask that. You’re not like to get a different answer than you did the past twenty times.”
She’d go with him, beyond the bounds of Midgard and into Jotunheim. She’d go, because she’d sworn it. She’d go because he was doing all this because of her. She’d go … because some part of her couldn’t stand the thought of him not coming back.
And here, in her absence, the wars would continue. But they were a small worry. Small compared to the truth she left behind.
Orvar-Oddr, the Arrow’s Point.
He was still out there.
And he had promised to make her suffer before he killed her. Would the draug pursue her as far as Jotunheim? If he did, how could she ever explain his presence to Starkad?
Sooner or later, Starkad would discover the truth.
Over the course of the winter, that fear had coiled around Hervor’s heart like a constricting serpent. Crushing it. Leaving her in such constant terror all else felt far away.
Numb.
He was still out there.
2
As a jarl under the Ynglings, Hrethel had done well for himself, no mistake. He owned numerous islands off the coast of Upsal, as well as a stretch of land across from them. Three of those islands he had granted to Ecgtheow, the largest of which Ecgtheow had lived on with Ylva, briefly.
Now she was with child and had gone to live with her mother while Ecgtheow was away.
When he returned to Hrethel’s hall, the woman flung her arms around his neck, pu
lled him down, and nibbled at his ear, drawing a gasp from him and a chuckle from those nearest.
“Ah. Someone seems to have missed me, then.”
“Should I not miss my husband when he ventures far from home?” The woman was so small, she had to crane her neck to look up at him.
Ecgtheow grinned and squeezed her arse cheek. “Where’s your father?”
She cocked her head toward the door. “Off by the ships, with my brothers. Where else?”
No surprise, that. Little else seemed to occupy anyone’s minds these days. Ecgtheow chuckled. “If we make your father a king, suppose that’ll make you princess.”
She leaned in closer. “Oh, indeed. And does the thought of bedding the princess of Ostergotland get you hard … Tiny?”
By Hel it did. He cleared his throat. “I think I’d rather shed that name.”
She shrugged. “Once a man fastens his name, it’s not like to come off him easy, now, is it?”
“Maybe I just need to fasten another one.”
“Have something in mind?”
“Could be. You’d best get yourself some food. You’ll be needing your stamina when next I see you.”
