Days of Frozen Hearts

by Matt Larkin

  She winked at him. The bulge at her belly just barely showed, but still, he loved looking at it. Knowing his babe was growing in there, warm and strong. By all the Aesir, he’d make sure that, when the babe arrived, his—or her—mother would be a princess already. Yes, if Ylva bore a son, that son might one day have a claim at being King of Ostergotland. That was a future worth shedding a bit of blood for, even if Hrethel’s other sons had better claim.

  Even if, after Thule and Jorund and all that, Ecgtheow no longer fancied bloodshed as he once had.

  With a last look at Ylva, Ecgtheow strode outside and down to the docks. A great many longships had gathered in the harbor, and more would no doubt be on the way, even now. Sailing in from all the isles, along with mercenaries hired from around the North Realms. Hrethel had wanted Eightarms and wanted him bad, but there was no help for it. The man had his own urd to follow and rarely seemed much inclined to change his mind once he’d set it.

  Actually, Ecgtheow was just glad no one else in Ostergotland would be able to hire Eightarms. He did not fancy clashing blades with him in any sort of real match, not even armed with Naegling.

  Jarl Hrethel stood on a pier, watching as another ship drew nigh, his sons there with him. Herebeald was debating his father, gesturing about wildly to make whatever point he was on about. Ecgtheow had fought beside the man in the war against Haki and again against Jorund. He was brave, maybe even rash.

  His younger brother Haethcyn had fought too, but Ecgtheow barely knew him. The third brother, Hygelac, was just a boy, though, younger than Ylva. Too young for fighting, though he didn’t seem keen to accept that. Boy was waving a sword around, trying to impress a father that wasn’t so much as glancing his way. Shame, that, but the boy would be dead in the first battle if he went to war.

  Herebeald’s brow raised as he turned, as he finally spotted Ecgtheow. He waved a greeting. “Tiny! Come!”

  When Ecgtheow did approach, Herebeald gestured to his father. “Tiny, my friend, please explain to Father the value of a surprise attack.”

  Hrethel snorted. “Boy here thinks we ought to strike out against Helm Wulfingson before even staking our claim and giving him the chance to acknowledge it. Says surprise matters more than honor.”

  Probably not far from the truth, but then, Hrethel always had to act rightly before the eyes of gods and men. Maybe Odin cared, maybe not. From the tales Ecgtheow heard of the Ás, Odin seemed to favor trickery, even unmanly schemes. Then again, Hrethel was a man, not a god. Different rules, Ecgtheow supposed.

  So Ecgtheow rubbed his palms together, taking in the boats, the gathering warriors. Like as not, Herebeald had the right of it. A swift strike could eliminate their strongest foe before he even realized Hrethel was involved in the struggle. On the other hand, Hrethel would be the one to name his heir, and Ecgtheow wanted his and Ylva’s son to have as fair a chance as any at that. That meant earning the jarl’s respect. “We have to give them the chance to acknowledge Jarl Hrethel as king. No sense in killing good men who aren’t yet our enemy.”

  Herebeald threw his hands up. “Mist-mad, the both of you! Helm won’t swear fealty to any man, not while he has the strongest army in Ostergotland. Sure as the gates of Hel not while he has his nephew to champion him. You heard of this Headolaf the Red? Man fought for Haki Seamaster, raiding and pillaging up and down the coast. Now he’s back, and in service to his uncle.” He paused, looked to Ecgtheow. “And, alas, I don’t see Starkad Eightarms standing beside our friend here. Whom do you think ought to fight Headolaf if it comes to it?”

  Ecgtheow slapped his palms together. “I’ll fight, if need be. I don’t fear the Red, nor any man.”

  Hrethel’s son snorted, then shook his head. “Be it on you then. We could have done this the easy way. If we find ourselves mired in troll shit, just you both remember that.”

  Now Hrethel chuckled. “Boy, we find ourselves in troll shit, I’ll be looking out for trolls, not worrying over who said what. Now see to the other ships. I want to launch with the tide tomorrow.”

  As expected, Hrethel hosted a feast that evening. A lord had to, if he wanted his warriors to go to battle in high spirits. Everyone knew they were not like to eat this well again for some time. They’d be living on dried, salted fish, barring whatever they might catch along the way.

  Ecgtheow was no exception, of course. After a good romp with Ylva—and Ecgtheow never got enough of the way she’d cry out when she finished—he’d come to the hall to stuff himself. Pike and salmon and fresh carrots, all well-cooked. No, he wouldn’t have missed such a meal for a pile of gold.

  Speaking of gold … “More mead!” He slapped his palms down on the table.

  The slaves were running about, trying to keep the horns filled. Probably meant he’d be waiting longer than he’d have liked. His throat was feeling parched already.

  Ylva sat beside him, poking at a fishbone, as if she couldn’t decide if she needed another serving. Her appetite had quite grown in the past moon. Good sign, that.

  A cloaked man settled down across the table from him and slid a goblet across the wood, sloshing mead in its passage.

  Ecgtheow looked down at the cup, then up at the figure, who had still not removed his wrapping. The hood concealed the better part of the man’s face.

  “Little warm this time of year for such an outfit,” Ecgtheow said.

  “For a man who does not … wish to be recognized by all … it serves.”

  The voice was harsh, a little raspy even. But it seemed somehow familiar. “Do I know you?”

  “You know me well enough, Tiny. We fought together.”

  “I’m not overfond of that name these days.” He picked up the cup but didn’t drink. Much as he wanted the mead, what man came concealed to the feast, and offering a drink? “I fought a lot of battles. Had a lot of allies. Even more enemies. Maybe you can narrow the list a little.”

  “I can … How many allies fought beside you … on Thule … How many did you leave for dead … out in the cold …”

  “What is he talking about?” Ylva asked.

  He was talking about something impossible. “A lot of men died on that island. Don’t see how any of them could be here now.”

  But he knew that voice.

  “Surely you know me … Ecgtheow. But I am not ready for all of Sviarland to hear of my return. Thus I come to you in secret.”

  This was fucking impossible. “Orvar-Oddr?”

  “Yes …”

  “Hervor said the draug prince slew you.”

  “Oh … The princes of the Old Kingdoms are mighty foes, indeed. They were masters of swordplay and learned in the dark Art. But he did not quite slay me.”

  Well, fuck. “Had we known you lived, we never would have left you behind. Hervor must have … she must have thought you dead.”

  Orvar shrugged. “She had good reason to think me dead. Now, I ask you for your aid in a task.”

  Ecgtheow rubbed his palms together and shook his head. “Would that I could. But we are bound in the morn for Ostergotland, there to press a claim for the throne. It is an urgent matter we must settle before someone else manages to.”

  “Ostergotland. Yes … it is well enough. I will travel with you, then, and aid in your task as best I might. And when it is done, you must aid in my task.”

  Fair enough, Ecgtheow supposed. He stuck out his arm and Orvar clasped his wrist with a gloved hand. Despite the warm hall and the man’s cloak, Orvar’s skin felt chilled, even through his shirt. “You do not seem quite well.”

  “Well enough for the task at hand.”

  Indeed. The Arrow’s Point was a legend across the North Realms. Even knowing he sided with them might have been enough to get some men to back away from the fight. Shame Orvar wanted to remain concealed. Still, Orvar was almost as fine an ally as Eightarms would have been.

  This night had turned out well enough.

  When Ecgtheow looked back at Ylva, his wife was staring at Orvar, gnawing her lip
, and looking far too dour.

  Ecgtheow elbowed her gently. “Come. Eat, drink. Let us enjoy ourselves. I may not see you again for a moon or more.”

  3

  Even in the midst of summer, the Gandvik Sea had a chill about it. Mist wafted over the waters and obscured the view of much beyond the ship, though scouts had called out land spotted ahead. Old Bragi Bluefoot had once told Hervor that plentiful serpents—the spawn of Jormangandr—lived beneath these waters. In her days as a raider, she’d heard tale of ships brought down by sudden storms, or vanishing without reason.

  This voyage had gone smooth enough, though. She counted herself lucky. Men chanced the Gandvik, for it was the only real way to the lands beyond Sviarland.

  And Starkad, well, he wanted to go far beyond.

  The man himself drew up beside her where she stood, leaning upon the gunwale. “Holmgard, the town, it’s a small port, but there’s a fair-sized kingdom of the same name around it. The only civilized realm left in Bjarmaland. Gylfi founded it decades back after …”

  “After Odin came to him in his dreams?”

  Starkad jerked. “So you know.”

  Hervor nodded. She’d spent quite some time asking after this land. After all, Gylfi had sent his own son-in-law Sigrlami here to establish the colony. And from what Hervor could piece together of the past, her grandfather Arngrim had slain Sigrlami and taken Tyrfing. Along with the sword, he’d claimed Sigrlami’s daughter, Eyfura, who became Hervor’s grandmother.

  Of course, if she told Starkad all that, he might work through it, unravel the bloodlines. Might realize she was Angantyr’s daughter. Might then understand what she’d done, how she’d murdered his friend Orvar-Oddr. And lied about it ever since.

  And then he’d fucking kill her. Or worse still, turn his back on her. And so she bit her tongue and wallowed in silence, as ever. Choked on it.

  The ship drew up to the pier.

  Gylfi’s colony had grown, flourished into its own small kingdom, despite constant threat from the jotunnar in Bjarmaland. Holmgard … in a way, Hervor had claim to this kingdom. A claim she could never press nor announce, but still, she’d longed to see it. Maybe even to lay eyes upon a jotunn.

  Stories aplenty had reached her about them. Chaotic beasts from beyond the Midgard Wall. Supposedly cast out by the Vanir in ages past. Like everything else, even that protection was failing. And now, they built their own kingdoms in Bjarmaland, while the folk of Holmgard claimed it was only a matter of time before the jotunnar pressed into Sviarland and Kvenland.

  Who was to say if they spoke truth or merely their own fears?

  Hervor worked her right arm as the men unloaded empty crates from the ship, eager to re-provision here. The wound in her shoulder had not fully healed, probably never would. Made fighting with her right hand difficult, though it had gotten better. And her left, well, it had gotten easier. Still not easy, though.

  Having had a draug bite off one of her fingers on that hand hadn’t help much, though.

  “Come,” Starkad said, and clapped her on the shoulder. “Hrethel sent word ahead of our coming to King Rollaugr and he’s offered us a guest hall for our use in town.”

  Hervor knew little of the king of Holmgard, save his father claimed the throne after her grandfather had slain Sigrlami. And would the king thank her if he knew the crimes of her family? Or her own crimes?

  Hervor swallowed. She had grown too maudlin of late. Maybe it was the knowledge that Orvar-Oddr remained out there, deathless and hunting her. Eager to revenge himself upon all she held dear.

  While Starkad dragged her off beyond the edge of Midgard.

  The guest hall was hardly worthy of the name—a house, really, with a well-stoked fire pit and not much else about it. And still, it suited Hervor well enough, especially when Rollaugr’s men brought them hot soup and warm mead.

  Starkad reclined near the fire, empty drinking horn dangling from one hand, staring off at naught she could see. He’d become even more … Otherworldly … since Wudga had given him that draught of eitr. The man she’d known was in there, somewhere, but changed.

  Then again, she wasn’t who she’d been before, either.

  In the winter, once, he’d come to her chamber and lain with her. And she’d expected him to come to her again.

  He never did.

  No matter how cold the nights grew.

  Now, they had a house all to themselves. It should have been right, but everything was off. Or maybe she was overthinking again. She kept doing that. Naught she ever did seemed to quite bring them to where she wanted. And whose fault was that?

  She leaned back on her elbows, legs spread as provocatively as possible.

  Bastard didn’t even glance her way.

  His fault, then.

  “I’ve been asking after this place we seek,” he said after a few moments. His voice was thick with the mead, far away. Not lustful, though. “There are legends of a valley in Glaesisvellir … a place beyond time or death. A place where reality becomes … fragile.”

  Hervor shut her eyes. She wanted to moan. To complain. After the horrors she’d gone through with the Art, if she never saw aught else born of the Otherworlds, it would be too soon. Yet she could hardly object after so fervently insisting he take her along.

  He had agreed to retrieve the runeblade Skofnung for Gylfi in exchange for that bastard king using his Art to save Hervor. Starkad had given up his own desires for her sake. So didn’t that mean he should have fucking wanted her? Hel take him anyway. Man had no idea what was right in front of him.

  Finally, Hervor leaned forward and folded her legs beneath her. “It can’t be worse than what we faced on Thule or beneath the mountains back in Sviarland.”

  Starkad rubbed his hands on his trousers, then patted them together. “I hope you’re right. I truly do.”

  He doubted? Odin’s balls, what were they walking into? But Starkad had given his oath.

  And no one felt the power of an oath more keenly than Hervor.

  When he said naught more, Hervor pushed aside her bowl and curled up to sleep by the fire.

  Alone.

  4

  On the outer edges of Holmgard, they came to a village. A desolate place Hervor misliked the instant she saw it. In her raiding days, she’d have bypassed it without stopping. No one here had aught worth stealing.

  Since snow had already fallen—and in the middle of summer, no less—Starkad had traded for a dogsled for them. The locals had no food to spare, forcing them to stop and hunt every so often. Still, the sleds helped, and they made good time.

  Or she’d have thought they would.

  And yet, Bjarmaland stretched on and on, bigger than any land Hervor had ever seen. They traveled east from Holmgard, toward a realm the villagers had called Qazan. They spoke of it in angry, hushed whispers, mumbling about needing Odin’s protection. Simple folk were given to wild fears, of course, but the sheer scope of their trepidation about the next kingdom over did not sit well with her.

  Still, the days were mercifully long, so long they must be approaching the solstice. Starkad insisted they use that daylight, pressing hard, until when at last the sun began to dip and he agreed to make camp, she found herself sore and more than ready for night, much as she detested the dark.

  The moment she untied them, the dogs trotted off, probably in search of snow rabbits or other game. Hervor set to building a fire while Starkad pitched their tents. The tree cover was light, but still enough remained out here she had built up a fair size pile of tinder before Starkad finished.

  The man slouched down across from her as she worked at sparking the flame.

  “We’re going to miss the Sumarauki festival.” She wasn’t really looking at him, focusing on her work, but she spared him the barest glance.

  He was staring at the sky. “I think it may have started today.”

  “W-what? Today?” Odin’s balls. The new year had crept up on her and instead of drinking and boasting and fucki
ng she’d spent the day freezing her arse off, riding across an empty wasteland. To get to Odin-alone-knew what.

  “Think so. Hard to keep precise track of the days out in the wilds.”

  No kidding. Hervor rubbed her brow with her palm. “Don’t suppose you have any mead left?”

  He grunted like the lack of it physically pained him.

  And that was it. Here was Sumarauki and he wasn’t saying a damned thing to her. Not really. Well, what the fuck did she want from him, anyway? She’d murdered his friend, and no matter how she turned and twisted that truth, it always came back to her. She’d never quite be able to be honest with him, would she?

  And why should she? Starkad was a worse murderer than even her if all the stories about him were true. Man had left a swathe of carnage in his wake everywhere he went. Now here he was—here they were, since she was still with him, Hel knew why—off to try to find a way through the godsdamned Midgard Wall and beyond.

  So she’d given her oath to help him, because he’d made his oath on her behalf. That was honor, right? What little honor she could manage.

  “If you find this last runeblade …” she began. “If you find it, then what?”

  “It’s not the last. There are nine, not counting Wudga’s.”

  “No, I know. But I mean … what comes next?” The spark caught and finally the flame took, spreading quickly into a thankfully warm blaze.

  Starkad turned to look at her now, shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe … maybe I’ll have to find another of the things.”

  Hervor groaned.

  “Well, it’s not like you have to come along if that happens. Your urd is your own, Hervor.”

  Well, fuck him too. What did she even want from him? Did she want to share an urd with the cursed, self-loathing vagrant? Did she?

  Maybe.

  There had to be some way to bridge this gap between them. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. She was no simpering maid to get caught up in fool notions of love or aught else, but … but they had something. Or they had almost had something, at some point.