by Matt Larkin
Across the hall, King Yngvi broke into raucous laughter, raising the drinking horn in Bera’s direction. His brother’s wife sputtered and snickered herself, almost choking on her own mead. The hour had grown late, and many men had retired, but Yngvi always liked to feast well into the evening. Starkad had business best discussed with few ears to overhear. Besides … night and sleep did not favor him. Dreams showed him more than one thing he preferred not to see.
“Did you see aught of note?” Starkad asked.
Afzal breathed out a long sigh, blowing discolored smoke in a stream. “Darkness. Long nights and skies aflame …”
The boy insisted those herbs let him see visions like a fucking vӧlva. Thing was, Starkad had heard enough insight from him not to totally dismiss those claims, however unmanly they seemed.
“And knowing you,” Afzal said with another drawn out breath, “such thoughts only drive you onward. You do not seek the good things in life, Master.”
“Such as?”
“A wife? A family?”
Starkad snorted. No. Such things were not for him. Never. He patted the boy on the arm and rose from the chair to make his way toward Orvar. His old friend was busy wooing a shieldmaiden—waste of time, of course, and naught Starkad minded interrupting. Orvar shooed him away with his eyes, but Starkad ignored the hint and sat down beside the Nidavelliran.
“We have things to talk on, you and I.”
“Not this night, I think,” Orvar said without really even looking his direction.
“Run along, girl,” Starkad said to the shieldmaiden. “The old man’s cock has shriveled up and dropped off long ago.”
The woman sneered at him hard enough she seemed ready to take a swing in his direction. Wouldn’t that have been amusing. Briefly. Then she rose and stumbled away, drunker than even Orvar.
“Wait,” Orvar called after her. “Eightarms speaks of his own manhood, girl. I assure you mine is …” He fumbled with his trousers but gave it over when she didn’t glance back. Then he cast a weary glare at Starkad. “Just because you don’t appreciate a woman’s charms doesn’t mean the rest of us shouldn’t.”
“Naught wrong with plowing a trench if the urge is powerful enough. It’s everything before and after I find objectionable. The … lies … the false promises leading to inevitable betrayals. All of it. Men and women were never meant to have long-term relations. Fire and ice.”
Orvar glowered, took another swig from the horn, and cast it aside. “I see you have become no less tedious in the past few years, Eightarms. So tell me, what do—”
“Because the hour is late!” Alf snapped at his wife, who still sat drinking by Yngvi.
Starkad glanced at the pair. Bera, Alf’s wife, sneered at him, slurring her speech. “You never take time to enjoy the merits of this hall. Always off to bed.”
“I have a kingdom to run in the morning, wife.”
“Oh brother,” Yngvi said. “Surely Upsal can manage a few hours without us—”
“Stay out of this!”
Starkad chuckled and pointed at the trio who were all now shouting. “You see what good comes from women, yes?”
“You speak harshly to your brother,” Bera said, “when he is no doubt a much better companion for a woman than you!”
Alf spat at her feet and stormed out of the hall, followed by Yngvi’s chuckles.
Starkad spread his hands to take in the whole of this debacle. “Behold the loyalty of women, my friend.”
Orvar groaned. “Alf is an abrasive trollfucker, and it surprises you his wife does not much care for it?” He threw up his hands. “You did not come over here to talk to me of women, I think. Nor, I pray, simply to ruin my evening.”
“No. I didn’t.” Starkad sucked his teeth. “You ought to name me your second on this mission.”
“Really? Here I sit, without my lady friend for the night—balls thick to bursting, in case you wish to know—”
“I truly do not.”
“—And no one to blame save you, and you think I ought to bestow honors upon you? Pray tell, Eightarms. Amuse me.”
Starkad pressed his palms onto the table and leaned forward. “You ever seen a man faster with a blade than I?”
Orvar drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “No denying that. Probably no man in all the North Realms has as much blood on his blades. Still, I cannot say you’re much in my good graces this night.”
Starkad sniffed. One move always remained open to him, loathe though he was to ever make it. Still, when losing the tafl match, sometimes a desperate gambit became necessary. Finally, he groaned. “He sent me … dreams of this mission.”
“Who did what now?”
“You know who I mean.”
Orvar’s eyes widened, and he stroked his beard a moment. “You would not jest over such a thing?”
Starkad scoffed. Given the choice, he would not bring up the Aesir at all.
Finally, Orvar nodded. “It seems a higher authority than even Yngvi wishes you along. Very well, I will name you second.”
“And … you’re going to tell me the truth about what we’re seeking on Thule, Orvar. All of it.”
The Nidavelliran hesitated, looking like he might try to deny his omissions. In the end, though, he just nodded.
6
The forest around the Yngling town was thick, dense, not unlike woods Hervor had once stalked as a bandit, save for the danger of sinking in peat. That she could have done without.
Arrow’s Point was here, talk in nearby towns had confirmed it. A great many men had gathered at Upsal, heeding some call or other from Kings Yngvi and Alf. She would need to settle with the two kings of Upsal, as well, one day. Because of Yngvi and his Hel-cursed daughter, all of Hervor’s kin were dead.
Hervor was the last descendant of Bolmso, and it fell to her to avenge them. Arrow’s Point, however, and his friend Hjalmar had been the ones to strike the blows. Her father had felled Hjalmar, but Arrow’s Point had somehow escaped the berserk brothers. Nigh unto twenty winters they had lain in restless torment in that barrow.
And now, Tyrfing had come back again, eager for the blood of its enemies, of her enemies. But she could not well storm Upsal and face Arrow’s Point and all Yngvi and Alf’s men at once. So Hervor kept to the woods and waited. They would leave eventually. Arrow’s Point was a famed wanderer, never lingering in one place too long. It would be his undoing. She could track him through the wilds … catch him alone.
And in the last, he would know who had come for him and why. That she promised her father.
Ravens in the trees took flight. Something had scared them off. It was daylight, so that probably meant men. Hervor ducked behind a tree. A tenuous footpath ran through the edge of the wold all the way to the two kings’ shared hall. More men were following it, coming to partake of Yngling hospitality. Coming to dine at the table of her enemy, to praise him, maybe join him. Whatever the Ynglings wanted, she would deny them. Take from them everything, as everything had been taken from her own family.
Three men passed by, speaking of some glorious adventure ahead. After they passed, Hervor stepped out from behind the tree and slid Tyrfing free of its sheath. It was hungry. She didn’t need to fear that hunger, though. Not when it could be so easily sated.
One of the men spun at her approach, clutching an axe. “Eh? What’s this?”
“Throw your wealth down, and run for your lives,” she said.
The other turned, and one laughed. “It’s one man on three.”
She shrugged. Good, they still took her for a man. Besides, she wouldn’t know what to do if they did surrender. She had to kill at least one of them. Tyrfing demanded blood. “Not for long.”
She surged forward, driving the closest man back. He raised his axe to block. She feinted left, then jerked her sword back across his face. The man fell, howling and clutching his split jaw.
The other two were not laughing now. One drew his own sword and charged her. Hervor fell back a few
steps, turned, and stuck out her leg. The man’s foot tangled on her ankle, and he pitched forward. She hewed a gash into his back as he fell, then turned on the last man.
She whipped her sword around in arc, flinging the blood from it. In daylight, its gleam was not as intense, but he’d seen it. He must have, for he was staring now at the runeblade.
“Who are you?”
She shrugged. “You would not have heard of me.”
“A man who attacks others without even giving his name is a murderer.”
So spoke a man serving the Ynglings. She had been called worse. She had done worse. “Tonight … you will not dine with Yngvi or Alf. You may, however, dine with Odin. Ask him—I think he will know my name.”
The man with the split face was rising, flailing about with his axe despite the blood blinding him. Hervor stepped around him, advancing on the final man.
“You have no name,” the man said. “Murderers freeze in the deepest pits of Niflheim.”
Hervor lunged at him. He parried, though clearly unaccustomed to using his sword like that. He wanted to reach for his shield on his back. You could see it on his face. Just like he knew she’d gut him if he tried. He fell back under her assault, ever farther from the path. Hervor batted his sword aside, then kicked him in the gut. The man fell on his arse, splashing down in the peat. He sputtered, tried to scramble forward. Hervor cleft in his helm as he neared, and he dropped dead before her, sinking back into the peat.
The axeman roared, charging forward. Hervor stepped back, let him swing wildly, and then knocked the axe from his hand.
“Why has Yngvi called so many men to his hall?” she asked.
The man spit blood and pulled his hand away from his face enough for her to see the raw, red ruin of it. A long gash tore open his brow, nose, and cheek down to his jaw. The bone itself looked sliced, and a flap of skin was hanging loose.
The sight of it turned her stomach.
“Why would I tell you a damn thing, bandit?”
Hervor kicked his axe off into the peat, then allowed Tyrfing’s point to rest on the ground. “Tell me what I want to know, and I won’t run you through.”
The man spit again. “Fine. King Yngvi has called all his thegns and jarls, all men seeking glory and fame.” The man panted and grimaced as he touched a hand to his wounds. “He mounts an expedition to a far-off island, one said to hold great riches and the chance to win Odin’s favor.”
“Who is going?”
“We were going. The king has called upon the famed Orvar-Oddr to lead the voyage. Yngvi seeks the strongest, bravest men in the North Realms.”
Hervor snorted. “Obviously not you lot.”
“Go fuck a troll. I will still go. The skalds will sing of this journey for centuries.”
She shook her head. “No. You’ll be dead.” The man opened his mouth to object. “I said I wouldn’t run you through, yes. But the wound on your face will fester and sap your strength until you wither and die. You will not see nightfall. But I will offer you mercy and a quick death.”
Disbelief and anger warred on his face. Trying to decide if she spoke the truth, probably. He must have decided, for his muscles tensed. With a predictable lunge, he threw himself at her. She jerked Tyrfing up, slicing open the man’s gut. He stumbled forward and fell to his knees as shit and blood poured out into the dirt, slipping between his grasping fingers.
She had promised him mercy. Hervor stepped behind the kneeling man. Then she cleaved his head from his shoulders.
The kings’ hall lay several days walk from the sea and, when the party had left, Hervor had trailed behind them. A great many hard-looking men, all pent up, ready for plunder. One of those men had earned the name Arrow’s Point. Nigh to twenty years ago that man had slain her kin.
The sword hated him, too. Or maybe it felt her hatred. Either way, it wanted to be free, to feast upon blood and send his soul screaming down to Hel. But. This was also a man who had defeated a small army of berserkir in single combat. He was a force out of legend, and she would not be so prideful as to rush headlong into a fight she wasn’t certain to win. No, her father had wielded Tyrfing as well and still died fighting Arrow’s Point and Hjalmar.
She needed the right opportunity to face him, a chance to catch him unawares and certainly not while surrounded by other warriors, many who had fastened names of their own.
They made their way across the country, Hervor careful to stay just enough behind so as not to attract attention with her torch.
The answer seemed obvious enough. They wanted men for their little adventure, men who could fight and more, men who did not fear to tread into the unknown. And once on that crew, she’d be able to get close to Arrow’s Point, very close. Sooner or later, opportunity came around to those who prepared themselves for it. It was like laying an ambush in the woods. You didn’t have to chase after prey—you waited for them to come to you.
Just a matter of time.
In the town, the raiding party spread out, probably gathering supplies for the journey. Their leader, Orvar-Oddr, and the scraggly haired man with him went to a longship at the harbor, one no doubt prepared for this purpose. The Yngling dynasty had grown either bold or desperate if they were funding such a voyage. In either case, it would be a pitching point, where the house could restore itself to glory or founder in ignominy. Hervor needed only make sure it was the latter. A weak house became an easier target.
The pair had paused as a third member of their crew was accosted by some woman clutching her bulging belly. “You ought to do your duty is what!”
The crewman smirked. “My dear, my duty looks well done, already.”
The stupid woman seemed to think the raider would stop and marry her. Or that she’d be happy if he did so. Men were men. Only a fool woman wanted them to behave any other way.
Hervor’s heart pounded against her ribs as she strode for the party. One of these men would surely know what she was about the moment he laid eyes on her. Distracted by the other woman or not, they’d see through Hervor’s feigned enthusiasm to join the crew, know her for a foe.
One of those people might even be Arrow’s Point. And if he realized her intent …
No.
Fuck that.
Confidence, Hervor. Confidence was everything. She had not lost many fights in her life. That was because she knew how to pick them and was too damn stubborn to accept defeat in either case.
“You’re bound for the lost island,” she said. She’d had a lot of practice pitching her voice lower, like a man’s. At least a young man’s. It had become second nature now, really.
The scraggly haired man turned on her, looked her up and down. “We already have a crew.”
“You can make room for one more.”
The man scowled a little—just a slight narrowing of his blue eyes. But mistrust was there, she was certain. He spread his hands. “Maybe we could. Why should we?”
The other woman slapped the crewman for whatever he’d said next.
Hervor sneered. The poor bastard was in the wrong place at the right time. “Did this man do wrong by you?” Hervor asked the woman.
The man snickered. “I’d say I did right by her. Repeatedly.” The man bore a golden arm ring, one carved like a dragon. She had mistaken him for a common warrior, but only a noble or a man of renown would own such a treasure. It actually made him a better target.
With a shrug, Hervor looked back at the woman. “Did he now?” Her right hook caught the man in the gut. He doubled over, lining him up for an easy cross to the face. He stumbled back under her blows. Hervor grabbed him by the arms and flung him outward. He collided with the ship’s hull and then pitched forward into the sea.
The man sputtered and flailed a moment before getting ahold of the dock and climbing back up. He spit water, fuming. “Thor’s thundering cock of a misfit. This boy-loving, troll-faced son of a donkey’s shit hole—”
“Shut up, Rolf,” the scraggly haired man said.
/> Orvar nodded at Hervor, then guided the drenched man away.
“This is the type of man you keep on your crew? Gets a woman thick with child and runs out on her? Can’t even fight?”
The man folded his arms. “I’m Starkad. Who are you?”
Starkad … “The one they call Eightarms?”
He nodded.
That gave her pause. According to the tales, Starkad Eightarms was the finest swordsman in the North Realms, if not all Midgard. Some claimed Tyr himself must have trained the man. He’d fastened the name to himself when a man claimed he moved so fast that fighting him was like fighting a foe with eight arms. A man like that could have been Arrow’s Point—great warriors sometimes earned more than one name.
“I …” her voice sounded a bit high there. “I’m Hervard.”
“Well, you’ve got balls, Hervard. Taking on Rolf Quicktongue like that. Have you had a name fastened to you?”
She shook her head.
“Be careful then. Act like that you’re like to get stuck Hervard Rockballs. I don’t care what went on between Rolf and some bitch. But I salute your courage. You wish to come with us to the very ends of Midgard and beyond?”
The ends of Midgard? Beyond? Odin’s balls, where was this expedition bound? She nodded lest he have time to spot her fear or hesitation. She needed to be on that boat when it left if she was to have any chance of felling Arrow’s Point. Especially if they were bound so far away. Odin alone knew when she might again have a chance at the man.
Hervor nodded.
Starkad cracked his neck. “Very well then. This ship will leave at dawn. If you’re here, we’ll take you with us. Prepare yourself—you won’t see this place again for quite some time.”
Hervor grunted in assent and turned to go.
“One more thing. You may have made your point—but you probably won’t have a friend in Rolf.”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t seem someone good to be friends with. Rich, though.”
“Oh, the arm ring? Claims some Reidgotaland princess gave it to him as a token of love.”
“Claims? You don’t believe him?”
