by Matt Larkin
Blood and lies and murder notwithstanding.
What did she want from him? She wanted to not be alone during the damn festival.
“So back in Upsal,” she said. “Over the winter. How many slave girls did you bend over?”
“What?”
“Maybe it got you through the cold moons. But we haven’t seen another human being in a while now. Long while. Your stones hurt? They about ready to burst?”
He snorted, but his face didn’t quite manage to conceal his sudden interest. “Sounds like you’re the one ready to burst. Throbbing down there? Need it, do you?”
Oh, she had him now. Maybe it just took the direct approach. She brushed her hair back from her face. “Here’s the solstice and we’ve got no mead. Hardly got a feast. Got naught really, except …”
Each other … Did they?
He crawled over to where she sat. Pushed her down by the shoulders, hard. Tore at the laces to her tunic.
5
Hundreds had gathered near the great Lake Vättern. Jarls and their thegns, other nobles, warriors and craftsmen, all to see the Thing. Ecgtheow almost would have preferred war, come down to it. All these people standing about arguing and boasting. Well, that last bit might have been more enjoyable, circumstances being different.
As it was, Ecgtheow stood by Hrethel’s side as the jarl faced down Helm Wulfingson, the other man joined by no less than three other jarls. Including Jarl Bjalmar, urd be damned. Hervor’s grandfather had refused to so much as speak with Ecgtheow in private once learning he was here with Hrethel, and then, that had been all there was.
And now … Well. Every man here surely knew how it would be. Bluster and threats. Warnings and brandishing of arms. Then, either Helm would put forth a challenger, or else there’d be war. And if Helm did call for a challenge, well, Ecgtheow would have to fight Headolaf.
Not that he was scared.
Least not that he was about to let on. Men thought you were scared and they’d be on you like wolves.
Ecgtheow rubbed his palms together. He wasn’t scared, anyway. He was ready for this.
He was ready.
Helm spit in Hrethel’s direction. Not on him, Odin be praised. That might’ve started a massacre here and now. But close enough.
Ecgtheow hadn’t caught whatever Hrethel had said to provoke that. Nor did it much matter now.
Helm took a menacing step forward. “If you will not swear your oath on my ring, I offer you one chance to live. Have your champion face mine in the holmgang this very day. And may the loser’s lord swear his oath to the winner’s.”
So. More or less what every single man here expected. More or less what every man save himself and maybe Headolaf wanted. The ones who had to fight and bleed and maybe even die in the circle, they maybe didn’t look forward to it overmuch. Smart ones, leastwise.
Course, if you died in the holmgang—died well—they said valkyries would take you to Valhalla. Maybe Ecgtheow would get to meet Odin himself, dine with the Aesir. That would be something worth dying for, he supposed.
Besides, he wasn’t scared.
After a bare hesitation, Ecgtheow stepped forward. “I, Ecgtheow the Tiny, offer to champion Jarl Hrethel in this holmgang.”
Hrethel clapped him on the shoulder as if it was a sudden thing, as if they hadn’t discussed this very outcome three times already. As if it wasn’t, more like than not, the way Hrethel had hoped this would go. The jarl probably supposed the man with the runeblade would be the safe bet in any duel.
He was probably right.
Another man strode up beside Helm. He was almost as tall as Ecgtheow, and even more muscular, with a shock of bright red hair woven into a long braid. Thick braided beard to match. Huh. Ecgtheow had figured Headolaf had fastened the name “the Red” because of the blood he’d spilled. Not so much because of his hair.
“I, Headolaf the Red, champion Jarl Helm in this holmgang.”
Already, men were backing up, forming a circle.
Ecgtheow glanced around. What? Here and now? Usually these things happened on an island. Except, from the looks on the men’s faces, they sure as the gates of Hel thought a duel was about to happen sooner rather than later.
A pair of men broke through the circle, laden down with a mammoth-skin rug. They rolled it out into the dirt, forming a rough boundary maybe twelve feet across.
“Rules?” Hrethel asked.
Helm looked Ecgtheow up and down a moment, as if weighing him in his mind. “The holmgang shall go until one combatant can no longer continue or yields.” Not the death then. Not intentionally to the death, at least. A small relief. “The combatants shall use … bare hands.”
Shall … what now? The crowd murmured, clearly as dumbfounded as Ecgtheow felt. Troll shit. The man knew he bore a runeblade. So he’d turned this into a wrestling match … Except, fighting for the throne of Ostergotland, it was like to be the roughest, bloodiest wrestling match any man here had ever seen.
It was like to hurt.
Grumbling under his breath, Ecgtheow unstrapped his sword baldric and handed it to Hrethel. The man gave him a knowing nod. Jarl knew why Helm had played it this way.
“Can you still beat him?” Hrethel whispered.
Ecgtheow didn’t have any fucking idea, but he wasn’t about to tell his father-in-law that. No. Ylva was going to be a princess, and Ecgtheow’s son would be in line for a godsdamned throne. If that meant he had to beat a man senseless, well, that was a damned unlucky man standing in his way. So he just nodded. “Don’t suppose I have much choice. Got to be done, right?”
Hrethel clapped him on the shoulder again, then helped him out of his armor. This Haethcyn took for him, folding the mail over his arm and offering a stern nod.
“This is all folly,” Herebeald mumbled.
His younger brother cuffed him for it, saving Ecgtheow the trouble. Ecgtheow glared anyway. Who in Hel’s icy crotch tells a man going into a duel that it’s folly?
Finally, Ecgtheow doffed his tunic and tossed it aside.
Headolaf had done the same, exposing a chest covered in so much red hair he looked more bear than man.
Huh.
Actually, Ecgtheow truly hoped the man wasn’t one of the legendary berserkir. That would make for an awful short duel.
The man in question stepped out onto one side of the mammoth skin, fell into a slight crouch and clapped his hands together.
Right then. Time to be about it.
Ecgtheow came up to the other side of the skin and mirrored Headolaf’s posture, rubbing his palms together. “You can yield as soon as you’re ready.”
Headolaf snorted. “Talking to yourself, boy? Not a good sign.” And he began to close, half circling, half coming forward.
Ecgtheow did the same, closing in, but not too fast. It took a special kind of folly to rush in straight ahead in this kind of situation. Last thing you needed was the other man knowing what you were about. Instead, as he drew nigh, Ecgtheow feinted left, then lunged right.
The big bear of man wasn’t falling for that, though. He caught Ecgtheow’s arm on his own, and then they were locked together. Shifting their feet, grunting, faces so close Ecgtheow could feel the bear’s hot breath and caught a bit of spittle in his eyes every time Headolaf grunted.
Twisting round, Ecgtheow strained, tried to bring the bear toward the ground. Headolaf must’ve had muscles made of solid oak, though. He just kept fucking pushing and pushing, driving Ecgtheow downward. A hairsbreadth. Another. Always down. Bending over backward.
Ecgtheow turned, or tried to. His knees gave out, and he and his foe pitched over onto the mammoth skin. One good thing about the fur—the impact didn’t hurt half so much as it would have. Ecgtheow rolled with it, managed to keep Headolaf from landing right on top of him.
And then they were both on the ground and he could hardly keep track of what was going on. Everything was all elbows and knees and locks and twists. Their heads bashed together and Ecgtheow couldn’t
even have said who started that. Just that his head felt like a godsdamned troll had slapped it. Blood was trickling into his eyes.
Headolaf had a hand up under Ecgtheow’s chin. Pushing it away. Pressure in his neck just kept increasing until it felt like his head was like to pop clean off his shoulders. Grunting in pain, unable to see much at the angle, Ecgtheow slapped about with one free hand. He managed to get a grip under Headolaf’s thigh and heaved, flinging the man off balance.
Another twist, and he pulled his head free, landed atop the bear. Gasping from the effort, Ecgtheow flung himself down, bringing his elbow straight into the other man’s gut. That earned him a massive oomph as Headolaf doubled over in pain.
Wobbly, Ecgtheow managed to rise to his knees while Headolaf recovered. Couldn’t afford to lose the advantage here. Had to keep attacking … Ecgtheow snared his fingers up in the bear’s bright red hair, pulled Headolaf’s head up. And let his fist connect straight on with the man’s nose. Cartilage splattered under the blow. Ecgtheow’s knuckles split open, stinging like Hel had spat on them.
Well, Headolaf was no doubt the worse off. Blood oozing down his face, reeling like a man with too much to drink. Naught for it, then, except to continue.
Ecgtheow slammed his fist forward again, right in the same spot, further ruining the man’s face.
Had to be damn sure, though. One more blow, this time to the jaw. Headolaf pitched over sideways. The bear lay on the mat, groaning, half coherent, if that much.
Ecgtheow spat out a gob of blood, only half of which was probably even his own. He stared at his right hand. His knuckles were covered in blood. His bones hurt. He’d be lucky if he hadn’t cracked any of them like that.
Men and women were cheering on one side, cursing and gasping on the other.
When Ecgtheow looked up, Helm stood above him, glaring down, shaking his head like he couldn’t have guessed it would turn out like this in a hundred winters.
Ecgtheow spit again.
“It is done,” Hrethel shouted, silencing the crowd. “It is done and the house of Hrethel claims the throne of Ostergotland. Honor the terms, Helm Wulfingson.”
The other jarl looked like he’d rather spit himself, but instead, he raised a hand, clutching his arm ring. “I swear on my blood and my honor, I am your man … King Hrethel.”
All worth it then, Ecgtheow supposed.
Now he just needed to find a private place to fall over and pass out.
6
The Midgard Wall rose up out of the mountains, a behemoth of unimaginable size. Wrought of stone and encased in years of ice, it disappeared into the mist above Hervor, stretching out to either side beyond all reckoning.
The better part of two moons they had trod across the frozen stretches of Bjarmaland. By dogsled as long as they could, and then on foot, up into the mountains. Signs of civilization had been few—other than a couple of villages—and Starkad had avoided most of those they did encounter. The people of Bjarmaland were now mostly slaves to jotunnar, he’d said, and neither of them wanted aught to do with the monsters unless they were left with no choice.
And now, here, at the edge of the world, she stared at the structure raised to encircle and protect Midgard from those creatures. It ran in an arc, Starkad said, encompassing most of the world, out to the farthest shores in the north and around. All the way to the Middle Sea beyond the South Realms.
The edifice had stood for millennia, he’d told her, keeping out the chaos. And it was breached. A ragged rift tore through the wall, creating a narrow but passable tunnel that vanished into darkness.
“It’s where he said it would be,” Starkad said. “The breach.”
“Who?”
“Orvar-Oddr.”
Hervor stifled a groan. Starkad spoke of his dead friend on occasion during their trek here. Once, on a long night, he’d told her stories of their prior encounters together. He did not admit it, but he clearly missed the man. And she’d clamped her mouth shut, saying naught at all for the rest of the night. A single misspoken word could reveal her crime and destroy … whatever this was between them. Assuming he didn’t just kill her for it.
Nor, in truth, did Hervor have the slightest desire to tread beyond this wall. How any runeblade had left Midgard and entered Jotunheim she could not guess. Given the passing of so many years, perhaps aught was possible. Regardless, staring into that breach was like gazing into chaos … into a world man was never meant to walk.
“Odin preserve us,” she mumbled.
“I do not think even Odin has crossed this wall. But if you are frightened, there is no shame in turning back.”
She affected the most withering sneer she could manage under the circumstances. She’d be damned if she’d admit to being afraid. Instead, she pushed past him and slipped into the breach, torch out ahead of her. The wall was thick. Thicker than she’d realized.
She had to turn slightly sideways to pass through the crack. A larger creature would have struggled to push its way through. But still, this must explain the rise of jotunnar in Bjarmaland.
Or … shit. What if there were other breaks? She blew out a breath. Best not to dwell on such thoughts. Concerns for the Aesir, not for mortals.
The confines of the tunnel forced her to hold the torch closer to her body than she’d have liked, spilling too much heat onto her face. It was that or wander around without being able to see her footing and that sounded like the most foolish—
The ash-man’s face appeared into the stone of the wall, leering at her.
Hervor choked on a scream, gasping. Unable to breathe. Unable to press on or turn back.
He came to her in her nightmares. Whenever she thought them past, thought the horror of what she’d seen in her dreams finished, he came back. To rape and torture her once again, this vaettr.
And she’d never know if it was even real or drawn from her own mind.
“Hervor?” A hand fell on her shoulder.
She blanched.
“Hervor!”
Starkad. He was shaking her. “Keep going. Just keep walking.”
Guiding her forward. Gentle. Slow.
When she looked back, the face was gone. Naught in here but her and Starkad.
Gylfi’s Art had done this to her, and no matter how many moons had passed, still, sometimes … it came back.
Odin’s fucking balls.
Finally, outside light reached her. Nigh to blinding, reflecting off snow, especially as she stepped out into the wasteland. Beyond the wall spread yet more mountains, all covered with unbroken snows. Snows that seemed as though they could not have melted in a thousand years or more. Snows and ice and cold like mankind had not dreamt of.
Like Niflheim.
“Orvar said the land was wilder here,” Starkad whispered in her ear. “Very few humans. More large predators. Beasts. Tread with care and make as little noise as you can manage.”
Hervor frowned, but nodded. Neither of them had ever walked in such a place, and now they were relying on the words of Orvar-Oddr to keep them safe?
Urd was strange, cruel even.
As evening settled, Starkad knelt on the mountain’s slope. When Hervor drew nigh, she was left with little doubt of what he’d found, hard as it was to credit. Wolf tracks … big as the prints of a mammoth, almost.
“Uh … dire wolves?” she asked.
“Dire wolves don’t get this big.”
Indeed, dire wolves were only slightly larger than their gray wolf cousins, if much stockier. So what did grow this large?
“Then … ?”
“Vargar.” He rose, shaking his head. “Legends … I was not certain they truly existed.”
“What are vargar?"
Starkad pointed to the tracks like she was a fool. Probably not far off the mark. “Tales say they hunt man, beast, and even vaettir. I think it best we find shelter before dark, at least while in these mountains.”
And yet there was no fear in his voice. Almost … excitement? Odin’s b
alls, the man had gone mist-mad. Hervor shook her head.
Starkad had already started off toward a crack in the slope. A cavern? Hervor did not much like the thought of spending the night in a cave … but staying out here with whatever had made those tracks sounded even worse.
She followed as he trod down there.
The opening was larger than it had looked from afar—a crack rent into the mountain side, taller than she was and twice as wide. Torch out before him, Starkad pressed forward, beckoning her to follow.
In the distance, a wolf howled. Another took up the cry, and another.
Wolves the size of mammoths.
Humans had no business on this side of the wall. If she made it back, she swore she’d never come to Utgard again. Never.
The crack delved far back into the stone, the ceiling dropping down after a dozen feet. It became so low, she was forced her to duck and hunch over. Starkad had fallen to his knees, crawling. Lovely place.
He paused, however, ahead of her. “Who are you?”
“What?” she asked.
“Shhh,” he hissed back at her. “Speak, woman.”
Must already be someone in this cave. That seemed … monumentally unlikely. At least if that someone was human.
“Enter if you wish,” a woman’s voice answered, wispy and hollow-sounding.
Starkad hesitated, then crawled forward, giving Hervor a view of a small cavern. A rough circle, wide enough for her to stretch out, though still not tall enough for her to stand. At the back of this circle sat a white-shrouded woman, hunched over and staring at Starkad’s torch like it was a venomous serpent.
“You are … vaettr,” he said.
“Death … follows in your shadow … and now you race toward it, as well … your aura is so thick with it. Succulent and bloated, ready to burst. And leave … so empty … as it all runs dry …”
Hervor crawled forward until she could sit beside Starkad. Very close, in fact, giving the strange woman as much space as possible. Outside, more wolf howls welcomed the rising moon.
