by Matt Larkin
Starkad scratched his head. “One story claims he raped and murdered the princess. And if he did, he probably convinced himself he was doing her a favor. Ask Bragi about it some time—when Rolf isn’t in earshot. He’ll tell the tale that Rolf next asked the bitch’s father to pay him for his services.”
Hervor scowled. This Starkad seemed not to care much for women. Or for Rolf. He bore watching. A man with a reputation for killing and one not tempted by flesh could be dangerous. Whether or not he was Arrow’s Point, Eightarms had his own reputation.
Hervor would need to watch him—and watch herself. One slip up among this crew and she’d find herself worse than marooned on a haunted island. Maybe Starkad was right about Rolf, too. Maybe she should not have injured and humiliated him. Sooner or later, shamed men came looking for revenge.
But then, she had learned a great deal about violence. Sometimes, it was just the easiest path forward.
Other times, it was the only damned way forward.
7
Yngvi had constructed a ship that could handle long days and nights at sea, yet still, they sailed the coast. Each night, they made camp upon land. It suited them all well enough, Starkad included. At night, the mist thickened, and men preferred the radiant flame of a bonfire to the small comfort of shipboard torches. By day, they passed the kingdoms of Sviarland through the Gandvik Sea and now were already moving into the Morimarusa.
Starkad had heard the sea here earned its name for the dead waters giving rise to unnatural stillness on the surface. That stillness was an illusion though. The depths hid unfathomable secrets, dangers not even Starkad deluded himself into thinking he understood. There were clans of mer, some in service to the dire queen Rán, who ruled the ocean alongside her husband Aegir. There were great serpents hidden in the depths, said to rise only in the most wrathful of storms. And worse, older benthic creatures slumbering, waiting to wake and consume the world.
The kraken, skalds called one such monster. And a sick part of Starkad longed to look upon the monstrosity lurking beneath these dead waters … to see it with his own eyes.
Still, monsters of the deep concerned Starkad less than what ancient evils laired upon the islands of Reidgotaland. True, in the past two generations, a strong kingdom had risen and begun uniting many of the islands. Some said the king, Healfdene, had done so bearing a runeblade of all things. But Healfdene was dead, and his son Hrothgar seemed not a fraction of the king the great man had been.
Starkad had known them both in his wanderings.
The men of Reidgotaland had much in common with Sviarlanders and so, often found interaction, both peaceful and otherwise. But Healfdene’s faltering kingdom did not concern Starkad. Older civilizations had retreated to uninhabited islands in the Morimarusa, retreated and slept away centuries until at last wakened. Stirred by the changing of the world. For all he knew, Odin himself had woken the ancient powers, whether intentionally or by blunder as the so-called god so oft stumbled blindly in the dark.
At the ship’s bow, staring into mist of uncanny thickness, Starkad did not suppose it mattered how they had wakened. Only that they had, and that now, the mist seemed intent upon them. It blinded them, obscured their course. They oft could not make out the sun in the day or the stars at night. And it was pursuing them, chasing after their vessel like a dire wolf pack stalking them, waiting for a moment of weakness.
Starkad spit into those dead waters. What was worse, the unknown horrors of the deep or the terror he knew too well lurking on the land all around them?
With a grunt, he turned away and threaded his way toward the stern, where Orvar sat, head in his hand. They had grown becalmed as soon as they passed out of the Gandvik, a day ago, but so far, the men had not complained. Working the oars tired them, no doubt, but it also distracted them. They did not know what Starkad knew, did not know what was amiss here. But they would feel it, the slight foulness in the air, the chill on their skin that never passed.
Starkad knelt beside Orvar and placed a hand on the back of his head, whispering so none of the others might overhear. “We cannot make land here.”
Orvar looked up, eyes wary.
“A great many years ago I warned you about these islands, and you did not listen. We are nearing Samsey, and it is not the only place they lair. They have been spreading, slowly, over the decades.”
“I have never seen these sorcerers you so fear, Starkad, though I have witnessed wonders enough.”
Starkad tightened his grip. “I have faced down a jotunn, Orvar. I have fought trolls, draugar, and a great many men. And still I would not willingly fight these Niflungar. They are perilous and treacherous, and I have a strong sense they are aware of us, following us even. Have you noticed the silent mist, ever chasing us? If we make land on these shores, I do not think we will ever leave them.”
“I have sailed these waters many times. I have never had trouble with aught save storms and men.”
Starkad released Orvar but did not back away. “I am asking you to trust me now. Push on, as hard the crew can take it.”
“The men will be unhappy.”
“Better unhappy upon the sea than unhappy waiting at the gates of Hel.”
Orvar rolled his eyes, then pushed Starkad away. He rose. “Men—we will not camp on shore this night. We push onward, rowing in shifts until we sight the northeastern shores of Sviarland. Then we rest, follow the coast up and along Nidavellir.”
As Orvar had predicted, a collective grumble ran through the crew.
“What the cock-beetle man?” Ivar the Loud shouted. “You won’t camp at Reidgotaland, but you’re willing to do so at Nidavellir? And pay tribute to the stone-cocked dvergar, I suppose? Maybe trade one of us off as a slave to the little rock-fucking bastards, too!”
Orvar jerked the man up from his oars and cuffed him on the side of the head. “You know me better than that, I hope. I’m not giving the dvergar so much as a hair off my arse. We’ll land in the wilds, do some hunting, and be gone with the dawn.”
Ivar shoved Orvar away and sat sullenly at his oars.
“Look now,” Orvar said, turning about to address the full crew. “Nidavellir is the last place we can stop before trying for the Faeroerne islands. And from there, we sail into unknown waters. None of us favor angering the dvergar, but we need to get supplies while we can. We don’t know how many days—or moons—we may be at sea before we find this Thule. And every single one of you knew the danger of this voyage before you first sat your arse on your sea trunk. So man the damned oars, and let us push on as best we may.”
Starkad tapped Bragi Bluefoot on the shoulder, then took his place at the oars. The steady work would keep his mind from growing too busy. At least eventually, once his body tired. Now though, all he could think was why? Why would the Niflungar care about them or their mission to Thule? They were a people ruled by the Raven Lord, King Gjuki. The birds acted as his spies across the North Realms, ferrying whispers and secrets back. Perhaps they told the sorcerer king of this quest.
But that did not explain why the Niflungar would bother to interfere.
They knew what really lay on Thule, for certain. Perhaps they wanted to stop men from claiming it. Or … they wanted to stop Odin’s allies from attaining those treasures. The Ás king had made enemies of the ancient people, and now King Odin and King Gjuki seemed to be playing tafl on a grand scale, moving pieces in a slow game to control the North Realms. Perhaps all of Midgard. And Starkad did not like the thought of being a pawn.
He liked the thought of dining with Hel even less.
8
The towering mountain peaks scratched at the sky above, rising almost straight out of the sea and disappearing into the mist. Hervor had seen mountains, true, but these were like something from another world. And indeed, Nidavellir was the famed realm of the dvergar who lived beneath these mountains, demanding tribute in treasure and slaves. Oh, and all lands paid that tribute. Her grandfather paid—every five years, he sent a shi
p to these shores, laden down with captured booty and women and boys.
Once, Hervor had gone on a raid to claim the tribute. The women had pled with her, back before she’d taken to disguising herself as a man. Pled, as though she would spare them their fate, serving the needs of perverse vaettir in the faraway land. Better them than her.
The crew sat huddled around a bonfire in the valley of wooded foothills beneath those mountains. Mostly evergreens sprouted here, and game was no doubt light, though Orvar and the Axe had gone out hunting, bidding everyone else remain at camp and keep quiet.
The scant fire barely illuminated beyond a few feet into the woods, the darkness leaving Hervor on edge. And with winter approaching, nights would only grow longer. This was a fell place, ill suited for humankind and best left to the dvergar. Unfortunately, their quest would take them farther still abroad from the lands of men. And unless she acted soon, she’d be stuck with these fools for a long haul.
Bragi Bluefoot, self-styled skald, was wagging his tongue again, this time carrying on about tales of Healfdene the Mighty. “See, stories tell, he had the blade from his sister, the princess. And with it, he held back the mist and conquered island after island, until all men feared to stand before him in battle.”
Rolf Quicktongue snorted. “I could stand to hear a bit more about this Reidgotalander princess. I may have known one or two of those in my time.”
The biggest of their companions—oddly named Tiny—folded his arms. “I heard you raped and murdered the woman.”
“I … I did no such thing! Why this,” Rolf said, patting the golden armband, “was a gift and promise of her eternal love.”
Tiny glowered. “So why did you not marry the woman then and live as a prince?” King Gylfi had sent Tiny along as his own emissary on the trek, a towering mountain of an emissary, perhaps to keep the rest of them reminded of his interests in this quest. Since Tiny didn’t actually work for the Ynglings, Hervor had no real quarrel with him, but he was like to prove a problem when she did finally strike against Arrow’s Point.
“Well,” Rolf said, drawing out the word long enough to grate on Hervor’s nerves, “alas she was pledged to another and could not break that bond. In recompense, she gave me this armband.”
Hervor sneered. “You just said she gave it to you for love.”
“Right. Loving recompense.”
“Full of troll shit,” Hervor mumbled under her breath.
Ivar the Loud, sitting beside her, bust out laughing.
“What?” Rolf said. “What did he say?”
“He said,” Ivar offered, “that you’re full of beetle-cocking troll shit, Quicktongue.”
Rolf scowled, then rose, stomping over toward Hervor. “I’ve had just about enough out of a boy who hasn’t even fastened a trollfucking name to himself yet. What do you think? Troll shit … should we call him Hervard Trollshitter? Hervard Shitsniffer? Or maybe … Hervard Noballs?”
That the last was actually accurate had no bearing. You couldn’t take that kind of talk from your crew. If you did, you were like to wind up with a blade in your gut when it came time to divide up the booty. Hervor would know. She’d planted a blade or two in men’s guts. She rose, hand going to Tyrfing’s hilt. Already, the runeblade seemed to be purring to her. Seeking blood. Needing to still a heartbeat.
All she had to do was draw the blade and … and she would not be able to sheath it without killing this sorry excuse for a human being.
“Sit down, both of you!” Starkad snapped. “We have enough trouble in these lands without bickering over a gods-damned woman none of the rest of us have even met. What Quicktongue did with the bitch is between him and her father.”
“Right,” Rolf said. “Naturally, that’s why he gave me this armband. As proof there were no—”
Hervor’s hand twitched. That Starkad was right made it no better. She dearly wanted to end Rolf and not just because of some Reidgotaland princess that may or may not have existed. He was a colossal arse, and she’d be doing the world a favor. It was not the place, though.
Instead, she forced a smile and sank back down to the fire. “How about a different tale, Bragi?”
“Oh yes, of course. Any requests?”
“Hmm,” Hervor said. “The legend of Arrow’s Point, I think.”
Starkad groaned, ever so slightly.
“Oh ho ho,” Bragi said. “A good one. Apt, I suppose, and you being so young you’d not have heard about our illustrious companion.” Bragi settled back onto his haunches and snapped his fingers, at which Starkad passed him a skin of mead. The skald took a long swig before passing it on. “It began with a prophecy, you see. A vӧlva foretold he would die by his own horse, near the same place he was born.
“Now Arrow’s Point, being a brave man, he didn’t fear death. But he wasn’t keen on dying to a horse, so he killed the beast and buried it deep. Then he set out, planning to leave his homeland behind. His father—that was Grim Shaggy-Cheeks, of course, a legend himself—granted him a fine bow and gave him seven magic arrows—”
“Nine,” Starkad said. “It’s always nine … the number has … significance.”
How did Starkad know that? Was he Arrow’s Point?
“Eh?” Bragi scratched his beard. “Nine, then. Nine magic arrows. One he used to kill a jotunn, earning him the name Arrow’s Point. Who knows how many he has left now? Not many, I’d wager, given all the other tales about him.”
Hervor fixed Starkad with a heavy glare, though he wasn’t looking at her. In fact, he had his eyes closed. “What tales?” Hervor asked.
“Oh, Odin’s beard. Roaming and raiding into Bjarmaland where he helped defend Holmgard. Some say he even went to Jotunheim, though I find that hard to credit. Then there was the fight with the berserkir of Bolmso.”
Yes. “Tell me about that,” she said.
“A dozen berserkir, if you can believe that. A dozen of them, faced down by two men. Only one man left Samsey that day. None else alive witnessed the battle, but it must have been glorious. Shame to have missed that.”
Indeed.
“A lot of men went to Valhalla that day,” Tiny said. “Not sure I’d have liked to have seen it all, though.”
A lot of men died. Hervor’s father. Her uncles. They hadn’t seen Valhalla, though.
Finally, she lay down beside the fire. And she ran her fingers over the golden hilt of Tyrfing.
9
A bitter wind swept across the sea as their ship drew nigh to the Faeroerne islands. Starkad was the first over the side of the ship, boots splashing down into freezing water and then scrambling ashore for all he was worth. Some few of the crew might have balked at such discomfort, but Starkad cared naught for these concerns. This was the edge of the known world. Here, Midgard all but ended.
Even the Faeroernes remained sparsely populated—at least by man—and one could see the wild, the realms of chaotic nature at the fringes. You could almost feel the vaettir, hidden just out of sight, watching humanity trespass upon their domain. It all left his heart racing, pulse pounding. It left him alive.
“We spend only one day here,” Orvar shouted. “Then we make sail north.”
Of course, they needed to push hard. Winter was settling upon them, and with it came fell storms apt to capsize even the largest of ships. They needed to make Thule before that, and no man knew how far this mythic island lay. It was almost perfect.
Beyond the shore, a small village sat on a small patch of level ground. Most of the island rose up steeply to a plateau where tales claimed other villages lay, though none could be spied through the mist. Indeed, it was so thick, Starkad could make out little beyond a few dozen feet. The unknown did not concern him, but the mist, that held dangers all too familiar.
Torch out before him, he made his way into the village. The locals watched him with wary eyes. Most like, these people saw strangers only once every few years, if that. In their isolation, they’d mistrust anyone not known, perhaps even suspect them
of being vaettir. Starkad paused before an old man in the center of the village, leaning on a walking stick and watching. An elder.
“You speak the North tongue?”
“ … yes.” The man’s word came out slow, slurred like it tasted funny on his tongue.
The North tongue was spoken throughout the North Realms, but dialects varied. Bragi Bluefoot had once claimed the tongue came down to them from the Old Kingdoms, but it changed over time. People changed it.
“We want to trade,” Starkad said. He pulled a pouch from his belt and dumped a handful of Miklagardian silver coins into his hand. “We need food, fresh water, mead, wood for fires, whale oil …”
The old man shambled closer, then leaned in to examine the coins. He picked up one between two fingers, rubbed it, and shrugged. “Very … shiny.”
Starkad nodded. “Yes. Melt them into jewelry or do as you will with them. You understand what we need?”
The elder nodded, then barked something to a nearby boy, speaking a barely intelligible dialect. The boy scampered off, apparently to fetch all Starkad had asked for. With a nod, Starkad dropped the coins into the man’s hand. It wasn’t like these villagers would try to steal from them—the men on the ship would clearly take whatever they wanted if that happened. Hel, that seemed to be happening now.
Rolf was leaning in on some fisherman, the man backed against his house. Rolf was barely looking at the man though, instead, leering at someone inside the house. A wife, a daughter, who knew?
Starkad frowned and shook his head. He’d known too many men like Quicktongue.
Feet shuffled up behind him as he watched, and Starkad turned. Afzal struggled, arms awkwardly wrapped around an empty water barrel. Beside him, the Axe more easily carried one that had housed mead, sadly now run dry. The older veteran took in the sight of Rolf and shook his head.
“Bastard starts in with the locals, and we’re not like to find pleasant shelter here again.”
