by Matt Larkin
“I am Hervard, thegn to Haki! Face me.”
Up close, the man seemed even larger. Six and half feet, maybe more. He spit and sneered. “Geigad Rockfist.” The big man eyed Tyrfing. “I know what that is, boy. And I think I shall make an even greater name for myself with it … after I ram it so far up your arse it scrapes your teeth.”
Colorful. Under other circumstances, Hervor might have traded insults with him. But she wasn’t going to intimidate this man. And that meant naught remained left to be said. Geigad stood between her and vengeance against Ochilaik.
Hervor raised her shield up between them, Tyrfing held ready just off to her side.
Geigad beat his axe against his shield once, hard. Even as the motion finished, he sprang at her, much faster than his big form ought to have allowed. His axe came down so quickly Hervor only just managed to get her shield in position. The axe clanged against it, chipped the wood. Numbed her arm. Again and once again Geigad rained blows upon her shield. After the third, her arm wasn’t working.
She jerked Tyrfing up in a clumsy counter, but he batted it away with his own shield. She was too far out of position. She had to get around—
Geigad snapped his own shield into hers with such force the impact lifted her off her feet. Without balance, she flailed in the air for a bare instant before crashing down into the bloody muck. Tyrfing slipped from her fingers, though she clenched her shield even tighter.
The big man was on her in a heartbeat. Another axe blow on her shield. Another.
Hagbard thrust a spear at him, and Geigad twisted, knocking it away on his shield. The reprieve gave Hervor enough time to snatch up Tyrfing and scramble to her feet. Couldn’t catch her breath.
Everything hurt.
Arm wouldn’t respond right.
Couldn’t feel the fingers in her shield hand.
Damn thing was splintered all to pieces too. A few more blows and it would crumble like kindling.
Hervor lunged at Geigad again, swiped with Tyrfing. With one arm limp, every blow felt off-center, every strike sloppy. She couldn’t properly get her weight behind a swing. But all it should take was a scratch and at least she’d take this big fuck down with her.
Moving too fast once again, he knocked away Tyrfing with his axe while smashing his shield into Hagbard’s face. The king’s brother crumpled like a discarded shirt.
Geigad spat. Turned on her. “You and me, boy.”
Grunting with the pain, she pulled her shield back into position. And he kept advancing.
She was going to die.
The realization was sudden, certain.
She had Tyrfing, but Geigad was bigger, stronger, faster. Had more reach. He was … just plain better. A champion feared throughout all the North Realms. Only a few men like that alive. She’d killed one, once, in Orvar-Oddr.
Killed him—through treachery. Stabbed him when he was exhausted and had no idea she intended it.
She was, after all, a treacherous bitch. About to get what she deserved.
“Starkad …” she tried to shout the name, though it came wheezy, winded as she was. She backed away, not nigh to fast enough to escape anyone, much less this killer.
Geigad sneered. “Meet your death with honor, boy. Maybe Odin will take you to Valhalla.”
Maybe. Or after all the wretchedness she had wrought, maybe Hel herself would come to claim Hervor’s soul …
“This is … Tyrfing …” She hefted the sword. “It will have your blood.”
The champion smiled grimly and charged. She raised her shield to block—and he slammed his into it once again, this time driving her almost straight into the ground. She swept up Tyrfing to chop out his knees. His axe came down faster.
It smashed into her clavicle and ribs. Fire erupted inside her as bones broke. The axe tore into flesh and muscle, even through her mail. Hervor gurgled on the pain, choked on her own scream. Collapsed, even as Tyrfing clipped the man’s calf and fell from her useless sword arm.
Geigad faltered, staring at where the sword had grazed him.
Through the blinding haze of pain, through the blood and muck splattered over her eyes, still she saw. The look on his face.
He knew he was as dead as she was.
Bastard.
10
It happened fast. Geigad’s axe descending on Hervor before Starkad even realized how much danger she was in. The way she fell like that. The big man stumbled like she’d cut him, but even if he knew what that meant, he wasn’t dead yet. Nor like to live long enough to die of that wound.
Starkad snarled as he dashed toward the pair, swords flashing. Geigad tried to turn on him. One of Starkad’s swords snaked in to score a hit on the man’s weapon arm. The other slammed down on his shield, then jerked back up. Tore a gouge out of his face.
Geigad reeled.
It was all the opening Starkad needed. His other blade snapped up in a tight arc that opened Geigad’s throat.
Starkad started to turn to Hervor when Svipdag the Mad charged in. Starkad had seen the man fight before, always a sword and axe pair, aggression over a shield. Not unlike Starkad. Fast and brutal.
But Starkad would be faster. The fastest man was the only one who mattered.
Round and round they spun.
Parry, dodge. Riposte.
Parry.
Starkad grunted and whipped his blades in rapidly changing arcs, trying to catch his foe off guard. But Svipdag, Scourge of Lappmarken, had no doubt seen Starkad fight as well. Every move countered. Every advantage—negated.
More than aught else in the world, Starkad wanted to glance over at Hervor. To see if she lived. To know she did.
But he dared not take his eyes off Svipdag for even a moment. Here he had managed to find an actual challenge for his skills, the likes of which he had rarely found among mortal foes. Svipdag’s own uncanny speed allowed him to dodge blows that would have decapitated most men.
Svipdag swept low with the axe, forced Starkad to leap backward, then twist out of the way of a sudden follow-up with the sword. Starkad knocked the blade aside, countered with his other, and fell back when Svipdag parried that as well.
His foe backed away a moment, panting. Not that Starkad was opposed to the chance to catch his own breath.
Now he did cast the briefest of glances at Hervor. The shieldmaiden had begun to crawl along the ground. Alive for the moment, thank any gods who were listening. But with such a wound … she did not seem like to stay that way.
“You should be fighting by our side, Eightarms,” Svipdag said. “Does your loyalty not lie with the Ynglings?”
“My loyalties lie with individuals, not whole families—much less those who turn on their own kin.”
The Lappmarken man scoffed. “Your loyalty lies to silver, same as any mercenary. Same as me.”
“Then we have naught else to discuss, do we?”
Svipdag spit, then shook his head, raising that sword high and keeping the axe low.
So then, let them be about it. Starkad roared, charged. High, low. Strikes from every angle, tight and wide. Any chance to slip through the man’s defenses. Any chance to get back to …
Focus!
The woman would get him killed.
His arms ached from swinging the blades so long. His attacks were starting to slow. But then, so were Svipdag’s. Starkad threw out another series of strikes, slowing these down on purpose. Svipdag parried each. Again.
Again.
Starkad feinted left and swung with the right.
Svipdag knocked away Starkad’s real attack with his axe, ignoring the ploy.
Again Starkad attacked, even slower. Svipdag lunged forward, trying to riposte. This time, Starkad stepped in as well, bringing his second sword up with twice the speed he’d made his other attacks. His blade was too close, lacked strength. It scraped along Svipdag’s mail but couldn’t cut it. It did, however, cause the other man to lurch over from the impact, probably more out of shock than aught else.
> Starkad rammed the pommel of his other blade into Svipdag’s chin. Drove him back a few steps. Then he jerked both swords together, the edges tearing out the Mad’s throat in a crisscross. Gurgling, the Lappmarken champion dropped to his knees, then pitched over.
Hervor.
Starkad stumbled toward her, his feet threatening to give out from under him.
“Hervor!” His throat seemed hoarse. Worn ragged with his heavy breaths. With battle cries. With sheer exhaustion.
“Hervor!”
Beyond her, Haki had cornered Ochilaik, now without his champion, guarded by a small shield-circle. The Ostergotland king bellowed as he charged the circle, many of his champions behind him. Folke and Kare raced to the fore, guarding their own king.
Starkad tore his eyes away from Haki, to where Hervor lay. She had stopped crawling. Had stopped moving.
He dropped down beside her. Her runeblade lay abandoned, half sunk in mud.
“H-Hervor?”
He rolled her over. Blood plastered all over her mail. It coated it, seeped down into the leathers beneath. The axe blade had chipped the chain links, even broken through in places. The worst of it was the impact, though. It hadn’t cut so much, but such a blow …
Her chest shuddered in another agonized breath.
“Hervor!”
A tremendous cry erupted from within the broken shield circle. There Haki stood, parading around with Ochilaik’s head in his hand, held up by the hair. So it was done.
Starkad turned back to Hervor. “Come on. Come on.” He looked around. “Someone get a fucking völva here!”
11
Twenty-Two Years Ago
Refusing to bow to Odin’s whims, Starkad had shunned Sviarland and pressed on, instead to Nidavellir, to Agder, a petty kingdom in the south of the northernmost lands of Midgard. He and Vikar had landed on those shores and come to the court of King Harald, sworn vassal to the dverg King Modsognir.
And the king had welcomed them with open arms, declared them his friends and made them raiders. They had plundered other petty kingdoms in Nidavellir, challenged the forces of Healfdene in Reidgotland, even raided into Sviarland.
And King Harald had grown rich off their efforts, rewarding both brothers in kind. The tribute he had to pay to the dvergar might have ruined a man less inclined to raid or one without such successful allies to carry out those raids. But despite all odds, Agder prospered under Harald. And Starkad knew why.
One arm around Vikar, the other laden with a drinking horn, Starkad walked Harald’s hall. Another raid accomplished, and the brothers’ names had begun to spread across the North Realms. One day, they’d be more famous than Tyr.
Starkad liked to think he’d earned it all on his own. Though … the Ás king did appear in Starkad’s dreams on rare occasions. He’d whisper names, places … sometimes those hints had led to great victories.
Vikar had earned the ear of Harald and would tell the king where to strike next. Despite all Starkad had won for Agder, all the foes he’d slain, Vikar had more way with words.
Now, they had joined the pirate called the Arrow’s Point in striking out into Reidgotaland. The man—Orvar-Oddr, he said he was really named—trailed behind, drunk on victory and mead, as Starkad led them all back to Harald’s feast hall.
Harald, ever generous, had spared no expense in preparing the tables, now laden with mammoth and whale and shellfish Starkad could not even name. The king himself sat at the head of the table, a grin plastered upon his face, and eyes only slightly bleary with drink. He pounded on the table. “My friends return again!”
“And bearing the greater wealth of Norreyske,” Vikar said, then chuckled. “I think Healfdene will be long in recovering from the blow we dealt his thegns.”
The king grinned further and slapped the table again. Then he beckoned Vikar and Starkad over. They joined him, Vikar to his right and Starkad to the left. Starkad motioned for a slave to bring a fresh drinking horn, and he drank deeply, savoring the sweet aftertaste.
In the wake of a battle, two things were sweetest. A great draught of mead and plunging deep into a woman’s trench. Starkad rather expected to avail himself of both this night.
In fact, he winked at Harald’s daughter, Alvilda, though she seemed to only notice Vikar beside her. Damn his fair-tongued brother. Ah, well, there were other women, shieldmaidens aplenty, and even slaves who would not object overmuch if he asked one to his chambers.
Harald cleared his throat. Rubbed his nose. “Well, then. I congratulate you all.” He raised the horn and his voice both. “And to the Arrow’s Point, as well!”
Across the hall, Orvar-Oddr turned to look at the king, nodded, and raised his own horn in salute.
Now the king turned back to Starkad and Vikar. “Ah, well. I would have liked to have gone … but uh … I suppose we all know the truth, eh? My days grow few, I think.”
“My king,” Vikar said.
“Bah! I am not a young man, Vikar, and every man in this hall knows it.” He sniffed, then coughed. “Yes. Well, my son is long dead and now I have only Alvilda.”
The girl frowned and stared at the table.
Feigned timidity or real? Either way, Starkad found it little appealing however nice her arse and tits.
Harald picked at some mammoth flesh. “When I am gone, Alvilda will need help to rule this kingdom. She’ll need a strong man by her side.” He looked to Vikar. “And she favors you, my son, though she is not bold enough to speak it.”
Indeed, the girl blushed, staring all the harder at the tabletop.
Starkad frowned. It sounded rather like Harald was saying …
“So then, Vikar. If you would have my daughter, I shall name you my heir. The next king of Agder.”
Vikar sputtered a moment, then raised the drinking horn. “It would be my honor.”
Harald clapped him on the shoulder. “Then let the wedding feast be arranged!”
At the king’s outburst, half the hall turned to look. And seeing their king so pleased, a cheer erupted. Toasts followed and laughter. Skalds poems and wrestling.
And so Vikar’s silver tongue would make him a king. Perhaps some things matter more than speed with a sword … until it came time for battle.
The wedding feast was all the greater, more impressive than any Starkad had seen outside of Asgard … and those days seemed another life now. Events that had happened to someone else. A dream.
And Starkad had woken from that dream long ago.
Drunk and happy, he’d taken a pair of shieldmaidens to bed with him. Sisters, they claimed, though he cared naught one way or the other. He thought them both well pleased, and he laid back, happier than he’d been in long years.
As was Vikar, no doubt. By now he must have sated himself on Alvilda at least once—something Starkad’s brother had longed for since he’d first laid eyes on the girl. And good for him—Agder needed royal children to establish a strong dynasty. Despite the dvergar, this land might yet prosper.
It might have done better under Starkad, but that was not urd, it seemed. No, nor was it his fate to claim immortality, though he’d been so close. Ironic, Vikar had cost him that, as well.
Though he’d shut his eyes, Starkad had not realized he’d slept.
At least until the fires started.
The smoke came first, filling the darkness. Choking him. Leaving him to wander in a drunken stupor, alone.
Wake up …
Everything around him had grown empty, save for flames. Spreading fast, engulfing the woods through which he fled. The inferno chased him, ever gaining no matter how fast he ran.
Wake up …
Starkad stumbled upon a root. The entire tree from which it jutted crumbled into ash.
He rolled over on the forest floor, as a shadow fell upon him.
A figure of smoke and flame, smoldering, like a fiend of Muspelheim come to burn away all creation.
Wake up!
Starkad jolted awake to the sound of batt
le. He stumbled out of the bed shelf, fell over one of the shieldmaidens, and slammed face first into the floor.
“What the fuck!” the woman complained. “Can’t you even …” She was sitting now, rubbing her eyes as Starkad tried to disentangle their legs. “That sounds like …”
“Because it is!” he snapped. No time for his mail. Instead, he grabbed his swords and blundered through the door.
Being drunk was rewarding. Fighting drunk, less so. Waging war drunk … was ill advised.
A bellowing man with an axe came racing down the hall. Blade raised for a killing blow. Moving so damned fast.
Starkad lurched back, just managing to get a sword up. The axeman ran straight into the blade, impaling himself. It stole his momentum right out from under him, and he pitched forward, dead almost instantly.
Well … glorious. Right.
Still reeling, Starkad stumbled down the corridor into the great hall. Dozens of men lay dead. Dozens more engaged a raiding force that had broken into the wedding celebration. Shirtless and unarmored, Vikar wove his sword about, cutting down one man and then another.
With a roar, Starkad joined him. One of his blades took a man in the back of the neck. The other clattered off mail, his blow poorly aimed and ineffective save to throw the target off-balance. That was enough though, and Vikar chopped down into the man’s skull, then kicked him away.
Behind Vikar, Harald lay on his face, empty eyes staring up at the ceiling. A gouge split him from neck to hip, and his blood and stinking guts had spread over the floor.
The king … the king was dead.
The thought did not quite want to settle into Starkad’s mind.
Grimacing, sobering fast, he engaged another murderer.
At Vikar’s side, Starkad watched the burning longship vanish into the mist. Alvilda was clutching Vikar’s arm, weeping without a sound.
“Those were Herthiof’s men,” Starkad said.
Vikar grunted.
Herthiof was just another petty king in Nidavellir, one more subject to the dvergar and no true enemy to Harald. Save that Harald had rejected Herthiof’s son’s proposal for Alvilda’s hand. Maybe they had hoped to avenge wounded pride.
