by Matt Larkin
She glanced at the prince, he nodded, and together they charged in.
Vebiorg snarled, perhaps blocked from her attack angle. Hervor couldn’t well look at her. She swung high as Win went low. Orvar parried Tyrfing, let Win’s broadsword cleave into his thigh, and twisted around behind the prince. He caught Win’s arm, spun him between himself and Hervor, turning the prince around backward in one move. Then he thrust his sword up through Win’s armpit.
A sickening scrape of metal over bone and then Orvar jerked the blade free and flung Win’s corpse at Hervor. She tried to step out of the way but Win’s arms tangled in hers and she fell to the ground.
Vebiorg leapt over the pair of them, snapping and snarling in unconcealed rage.
Hervor shoved Win’s corpse off herself, scrambled to her feet, and came about to see Vebiorg rip a chunk of putrefying flesh out of Orvar’s calf. The wound ought to have dropped him. Strands of muscle and sinew were hanging loose, dragging on the floor behind him. He was shrieking in pain, the sound even more mind-rending than his laughter. Made Hervor want to clutch her ears and duck and pray to the Aesir for safety from the damned.
But Odin wasn’t here and, so far as Hervor could tell, hadn’t done troll shit about Orvar-Oddr thus far. The Ás didn’t seem like to start now.
Bellowing her own war cry that only half drowned out the hideous shrieking in her skull, Hervor charged in, swiping again and again. Tyrfing managed to sneak past Orvar’s defenses and rend the mail on his arm, but even that only stoked the draug’s fury.
He caught her next blow on his broadsword, slid the blade up until he was matching strength with her. Which was no contest, but she couldn’t let go or he’d drive his blade through her face. Instead, he shoved her backward, actually lifting her off her feet.
Hervor managed to land on one knee, sucking in her breath at the pain from knocking her other one on the stone floor.
Vebiorg lunged in, flying for his throat. The draug’s backhand caught her across the muzzle and sent her careening to the floor.
Hervor rose, panting.
Orvar bent over and snared up a rock the size of Hervor’s torso.
Oh, Odin’s lumpy stones.
The draug flung the stone and Hervor dove to the floor. The projectile swooshed over her head, ruffling her hair in its passage. She launched herself upward, swinging Tyrfing as she did so, following an arc that ought to have cut his cock off and split him up to his neck.
The draug flung himself forward before her arc got full momentum, slammed into her chest, and knocked the wind from her. Tyrfing toppled from her grasp as a haze of white filled her vision. She hit the ground hard. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear.
Couldn’t breathe.
She gasped, trying to fill her lungs.
“… is fitting, don’t you think?” What the fuck was the draug saying now? His hollow, grating voice tore at her mind.
Hervor managed to lift her head off the rock. The bastard was holding Tyrfing himself now, pale blue flames dancing along the blade. “Your father died wielding this against Hjalmar, though he killed his foe as well. I rather think this blade wounded them both. And now it will kill his daughter, who could not let the past lay buried.”
With another snarl, Vebiorg flew at him and her jaw closed down on his left forearm, the one holding Tyrfing. The blade clattered from his hand as well. She must’ve had nigh to his strength, because she yanked him to the ground as well.
Hervor lunged at Tyrfing, caught its hilt, and then thrust at Orvar-Oddr. The draug whipped the wolf around and Hervor barely managed to pull her attack short and avoid impaling the varulf. Instead, Vebiorg slammed into Hervor and sent the both of them toppling over.
Limping and lilting from side to side, Orvar tromped over, caught Vebiorg by the scruff of her neck, and flung her two dozen feet. The varulf collided with a column in mid-air, cracked it, and crashed hard into the floor .
Orvar growled at Hervor, dark liquid dribbling down his chin. “Just you and I, as it should be.”
Hervor managed her feet, holding Tyrfing up between her and the draug. “I will end you. Whatever it fucking takes. I’m going to cut you down. You took … everything from me!”
The draug just bared his teeth once more, visage dark and Otherworldly.
Hervor didn’t give a fuck anymore. She was tired of being scared. Shrieking, Tyrfing grasped in both hands, she charged in. The pale flames along the blade flared higher, mirroring her rage.
She cleaved straight down onto Orvar. He twisted out of the way of that, so Hervor feinted left, reversed her swing, and cut back at him. The runeblade bit deep into his gut and the draug stumbled back, snarling.
Not letting up, Hervor lunged in again. Her arms burned with fatigue, muscles flimsy as water. She let fury make up for her failing strength, slicing back and forth, an endless stream of attacks.
Orvar parried, dodged, knocked her blade aside. She just kept coming on, snarling like the mindless horror he had become. Tyrfing flashed up and ripped through his left elbow, leaving his forearm dangling by strands of rotting flesh.
Almost the same instant, his sword slammed into her abdomen. Her mail kept it from cleaving her in half. Barely. The blow heaved her off her feet. Dug mail links into her flesh even through her leather pads. Sent vomit spewing out of her even as she flew backward and crashed down to the floor.
Insides crushed … couldn’t … move .
Hervor gasped, gurgled on vomit. Struggled to suck down a breath.
Another snarl, and Vebiorg flew into Orvar once more. The draug’s sword flew free as the varulf barreled him over. They were on the floor too, Orvar struggling to hold the wolf back from his throat with one remaining arm. Had his forearm against her neck, pressing her back, barely keeping snapping fangs from tearing out his face.
Fuck.
Hervor had to get over there. Had to help Vebiorg before the draug could recover.
Groaning, she managed to roll over to her side. Started to crawl for Tyrfing. Please, Odin. Give her just a little more strength. Moments more to end this. Just one more chance …
Vebiorg yelped, snarled in pain.
Grunting, Hervor cast a look over her shoulder. The varulf had arched her back, twitching as her form shifted. Audible pops as bones changed shape, the woman thrashing in obvious pain.
Sunlight just peeking through the hole in the roof.
Oh, Odin’s stones. Vebiorg …
Frantic, Hervor crawled faster, pulled herself to Tyrfing. Closed her hand around its hilt. The pain in her gut dimmed ever so slightly as the runeblade’s rage seeped into her. Rapid breaths, trying to steady herself, pull herself to her knees.
Vebiorg was naked, resting on hands and knees in the circle of sunlight. Snarling, Orvar stalked around its perimeter. The draug couldn’t get to the varulf without moving into the light and losing all his powers.
Hervor’s gut dropped when she realized he wasn’t circling Vebiorg, he was moving around the light’s perimeter, toward Hervor.
“Run!” Vebiorg shouted at her.
Oh, godsdamn it! Not like this. Hervor stumbled to her feet, blundered toward the rotting double doors that closed in the temple.
A hideous growl behind her as Orvar surged forward, stride uneven given his rent leg, but still faster than her. Odin’s stones!
She had to move. Had to … faster!
She reached the doors. Could feel him a few feet behind. Hervor swiped Tyrfing, the runeblade tearing through the rotting wood like it was barely there. She flung her weight at the door and crashed through, heedless of dozens of splinters piercing her arms, her legs, her face.
Beyond, she hit stone steps, toppled down them, banging her head, her shoulders, her hips. Impact after impact jarred her before she pitched down into the cobblestone street.
Gasping at the innumerable aches, she rolled over. No one out on the streets yet. Not so close to dawn. People here waited, maybe not even sure why they feared the night so ver
y much, but sure something was out in it.
Through the ruptured door, a pair of red eyes gleamed inside the darkened temple. A roar erupted from there, vile, a shriek of defiant rage torn straight from the gates of Hel.
Teeth grit, Hervor rose, Tyrfing wobbly in her hands but raised before her.
The hatred wafting off Orvar-Oddr was almost enough to choke her, even from twenty feet away.
But he wasn’t following.
Grunting in too many agonies to keep track of, Hervor stumbled down the street, casting repeated glances at those red eyes.
They watched her every step.
By the time she drew nigh to the harbor, the streets were thick with people, many staring at her as she limped and plodded her way past them. The rise of people had left her with no choice but to sheath Tyrfing.
Besides, she was fair certain Orvar-Oddr would not pursue her in daylight, much less in public. A draug would send most people screaming in terror, but someone would surely come to destroy the creature if he proved so bold. Hel, if Hervor could speak the language, she’d be half-tempted to find a Miklagardian soldier and report the draug in that temple.
No, that was pointless musing. She didn’t speak the language, didn’t know the name of the place, and Orvar was like to have found some shadow to crawl into, anyway.
But … Hervor faltered. Vebiorg.
Damn it. She had to pray the varulf would make it out on her own. As far as she knew, varulfur still maintained some of their strength even in daylight. Shit, maybe Vebiorg could even kill Orvar-Oddr.
Either way, Hervor had given every last drop of rage, skill, and effort she could manage. And she’d still failed. The Arrow’s Point had bested her, even with Win and Vebiorg beside her. The draug was unstoppable.
Hervor had to get the fuck out of Miklagard.
At the city gate, she had to hold up, as the guards slowly waved people through in small groups. People coming in from the harbor, those going out. All got a cursory inspection. Maybe they’d stop her considering her obvious wounds. Maybe not.
Either way, the throng gathered there meant waiting around for her chance. She had plenty of silver plundered from Tanna’s vault. She could use that to take a boat. At this point, it mattered little where it was bound. Miklagard seemed perched on the edge of the gates of Hel, so most anywhere would be an improvement.
Pausing, even for the brief moment, only made the pains worse. More obvious. She ought to be lying abed for a fortnight. If there was a ship bound for Bjarmaland, could she even make the trek back to Holmgard?
She leaned on a building wedged against the city wall. Barely stifled her groans and pants, and that only because she didn’t want the crowd staring at her. If she fled to Bjarmaland, Orvar-Oddr would follow. His hatred was as undying as his body. He’d stolen Starkad from her—the man fucking that vampire bitch made that clear enough.
The draug would hunt her every last day of her life, however long or short that proved. She was so godsdamned tired of being afraid. Of looking for red eyes in every shadow. Of waiting to see who would be found dead next. She drew in a sharp breath.
There is only one way a bad life ends—badly.
Vebiorg was right on that count. Hervor had wrought her own urd. Lived as a bandit, a pirate. A murderer. Committed nigh every crime imaginable. Except, she’d never broken an oath until now.
She’d sworn vengeance on Orvar-Oddr, and she’d taken it. Maybe that had been a mistake, but she’d kept her oath.
People began to step around her, thinking she no longer waited for the chance to pass the gate. Maybe she no longer did. Because she still had an oath to Starkad. Maybe she could make him see her side of it.
Maybe not.
But she had to try.
And she had to go after Orvar. Become the hunter.
One way or another, she had to put an end to this.
28
A rete had seen to Starkad’s needs, predicted them all. Through the haze of his death and rebirth, it had proved nigh impossible to control himself or make sense of the flood of sensations. In the aftermath, though, he’d looked upon the carnage he’d wrought.
It was the distant horror of a battlefield. The stench of death and the disquiet of knowing he’d had a hand in it, yet it remained far away. Removed from him, as if it had been someone else’s hand that dealt the killing blows.
Now he stood in front of Tanna’s palace, staring up at the massive wall around it. Maybe the Patriarch would be in his tower.
That thought had run round and round in Starkad’s head and given him pause, while forcing him to dwell on the events of his first waking two nights ago.
The heartbreak on Hervor’s face had offered a dim satisfaction. The pain she visited upon him returned to her in some small portion. All of it seemed a blur, though.
With the victims and the fucking both, he felt like he had wandered back into the nightmare worlds Ogn had drawn him through. Except this was reality, he was fair certain. And he had become something like a draug now, creatures he had despised and seen as foes most of his life. Creatures that killed many he’d known and cared for. Abominations.
As a vampire, was he better than a draug for being less obsessed with vengeance, perhaps even closer to human? Or was he worse, for those very same reasons? Because he was not driven by the single-minded pursuit of destroying the living and yet found himself preying upon them all the same.
Hard to say, really.
At the moment, though, he did not seek to prey upon humans but upon other vampires. A bold ambition, perhaps.
Arete had warned him he was young, barely in control of himself. The latter had probably been true most of his life. She’d said Tanna had vampires serving him who’d lived for centuries, stoking their power by devouring countless victims’ life energies. Starkad could not hope to match that, she’d said.
Then again, he’d fought Tanna and lived, even as a mortal. And he was something more than that now.
Starkad grasped the gate and heaved himself upward, caught the top of it, and slipped over. His increased strength made most barriers mere minor annoyances. Useful.
Beyond the wall, a heartbeat pounded. Just one. Poor bastard.
Starkad crept forward, sticking to the shadows. A single guard patrolled around the yard, though other heartbeats sounded in the distance. They should have patrolled in pairs, the fools.
With incredible speed, Starkad lunged at him, slapped a hand over his mouth, and bit down on his neck. The guard squirmed a moment before his strength—meager though it seemed next to Starkad’s—gave out. Starkad drank deep, but still felt full from last night and couldn’t stomach much more. Instead, he broke the man’s neck and left the corpse lying there.
Whatever Arete had done, it had mostly fixed Starkad’s jaw. She’d said a few more feedings and he’d be able to speak without pain. He’d complained about his eyes and she’d said those injuries were too old to be fixed by his rebirth. Meaning he was stuck with bad vision for all eternity. Delirious as he was while dying, he hadn’t really considered that, and he found himself a little vexed at Arete for not bothering to point it out.
He jumped up to a windowsill ten feet in the air, pulled himself up, and slipped inside. Just beyond here, two more guards waited on a landing. He dispatched these two and pushed on.
On the upper level, he checked several rooms before coming to one with another guard. Starkad charged him from the shadows and slammed a fist into his gut before he could raise a cry. Then he snapped this one’s neck too.
Starkad tried the door. Locked. He slammed against the door twice before the lock buckled. It opened into a plush bedchamber. Probably Tanna’s room, though empty now. He stroked his beard, found that sent a small twinge of pain to his jaw—feeding hurt too, but it was so powerful he almost didn’t notice—and gave it over.
He made his way further down the winding stairs to the lower level. Nikolaos had still refused to act directly against Tanna or even allow A
rete to do so. Starkad got the impression that, as a vampire given life by Arete, the rules should have prevented him from trying this, too .
He’d made it clear he didn’t give a fuck about vampire rules or the emperor or aught else save killing Tanna. And Nikolaos had ordered Arete to give Starkad two new swords, these made of pure iron. Not woven, not worked into steel, pure iron.
“We’re ghosts,” Arete had explained. “Pure iron—cold iron, that is—is harmful to us. The hilts are wrapped in leather, allowing you to hold them. The blades will sap your strength, though, so take care.”
Some völvur had claimed iron warded against vaettir. If it worked against vampires, that was all the better.
As he reached the lower floor, a shadow dropped down from the ceiling. Starkad lurched away just as a female vampire slashed at him with claw-like nails. Shit. He’d gotten used to listening for heartbeats and hadn’t noticed her. He fell back, hit the stairs, and had nowhere to go.
Nor any room to draw his blades.
Instead, he caught her wrist as she slashed at him. She jerked free with astounding strength, her other hand slashing along his face and neck. The pain of it stunned him for a bare instant, then he ducked the next blow. So she was stronger than him. Not faster, though. He dodged, hit her in the ribs with a hook, and followed up with an uppercut to her jaw. That one sent her toppling over backward.
He jerked his blades free. She leapt up, lunged at him, then drew up short as she caught sight of his swords. Too late. He rammed one through her chest. She spasmed, then went limp around it. With the other, he lopped her head off.
That ought to kill a vampire.
Starkad kicked her corpse off his blade, then started down a hall.
More heartbeats. Giving over stealth, he charged right at them, cutting both down before they even had weapons up .
Guards probably meant he was going the right way. He tore through more hapless victims and another vampire who clearly didn’t expect intruders at all, much less one as fast as him. If Starkad didn’t find Tanna, maybe he’d just kill every last bastard who worked for him. That ought to get the Patriarch’s attention.
