by Matt Larkin
“We were slaves of Jarl Arngrim, a long time ago. You though, you’re too young to be his daughter.”
“Granddaughter. My father was Angantyr.”
The former slave nodded, obvious wariness in his eyes.
Hervor licked fish juice from her fingers before settling her gaze first on the woman, then the man. “I have no mind to disrupt your lives. But I will have my birthright, and I would like to know what happened here.”
The man clucked his tongue and looked to his wife before speaking. “Not much birthright left here. A long time ago now—we were young then … what, maybe eighteen winters back, word came the lord and lady’s sons were killed in battle. Not just one or two, all twelve of them. Nobody believed it. They’d never lost a battle; they were invincible. Everyone said so.”
“But they never came home,” the woman said. “Never came back. Winter passed, and in summer, Jarl Arngrim set out himself. We heard later he cast himself into the sea, so we supposed it was all true.” She took Hervor’s cup and refilled it, then began to clear away the plates. “After that, everyone urged Lady Eyfura to go back to the lands of her father in Holmgard. She wouldn’t listen, though, just kept waiting here, like she thought the men would return still.”
Hervor cleared her throat when the woman fell silent. “And?”
“And they didn’t, of course,” the man said. “The princess wasted away. What was left of the population here fled. We …”
“You thought you may as well claim it as your own.”
The man scowled. “I never dared claim it, my lady.”
She waved the thought away. “As long as you respect my claim, I welcome your presence here.”
“Will you rebuild the great hall, lady?” the woman asked.
Hervor shook her head. “I cannot rebuild my family’s home while they remain unavenged. The kings of Upsal and their champion destroyed our entire line.” She spit in the fire. “Now I learn they are to blame for the death of my grandparents, as well. No.” She ran her tongue over her teeth. No, it was too much. A weight, a burden that only served to reinforce her oath. “Await my return and if anyone should chance upon this island, tell them the last descendant of Arngrim claims all that should be hers.”
She would need wealth to challenge the Yngling dynasty.
Hervor knew one sure way to earn wealth. Red-Eye had taught her that.
24
The river ran swiftly, cutting a canyon through the island. Following such a canyon, with ice-crusted walls rising to either side, did not seem over wise to Starkad. Archers could tear them to pieces. But scaling those walls would have taken too much time, even if these water vaettir had chosen to travel above. Besides, vaettir rarely had archers.
Still, this island was wild, well beyond the bounds of civilization. It was possible jotunnar or other dangers lurked here.
The dvergar no longer dwelt in Nordri. Not in any of their great cities outside Nidavellir, though he did not know why.
Nor did it matter.
Wherever dvergar went, they dug up, forged, or otherwise crafted treasures worthy of the ages. The runeblades not withstanding. And Hervor bore a runeblade. The Niflungar would like come for it again. Starkad could take it from her—might even save her life in doing so. Probably not. Probably the Niflungar would still hunt her and then kill her once they realized she no longer bore that blade.
Besides, saving her life was not his problem.
She had wrought her own fate.
He pushed the others hard. They were exhausted, of course, had walked for hours, until day had at last broken. Light was their only ally and a fleeting one. They had to push forward. Vaettir liked to lair in old, abandoned places. And what better ruins than a dverg city?
He did not know exactly where, but according to Yngvi, Odin had claimed it lay at the heart of Thule. In this direction. Odin could shove that mystical spear of his up his own arse for all Starkad cared. But his information was like as not true.
With the sun up, the island was warmer. Which was to say, wrapped in a fur cloak he didn’t feel his balls were about to freeze off. But then winter had only just settled in here, and it would grow colder still. And unless he missed his guess, their daylight would fade very soon. Already several hours of it had passed.
The ever-present mist had thinned in daylight, especially with that Hel-cursed sorcerer dead …
Ahead, someone was sitting on the ice by the river. Three men and a woman, all naked. They were camped before a tunnel in the cavern wall.
Starkad held up a hand to stall those behind him. They slowed, now creeping forward. They would have seen the vaettir as well. Orvar moved close behind Starkad, then unshouldered his bow.
“Cold doesn’t bother those cocking spirits,” Ivar said.
Starkad glared at him and jerked his hand for silence. Leaving the others behind, he began to edge forward in a crouch. The sun dipped below the mountains. Darkness would return in mere moments. And if the nixies leapt into the waters, he’d never catch them.
They needed to get ahead of their foes, cut them off. He glanced back at Afzal, then motioned for him to flank the vaettir. Long winters together had taught the boy well. Hervor broke off and went with him. Starkad frowned. At least she seemed to know how to move without making noise.
The problem was, the rocks provided very little cover. He was going to have to wound one from a distance. Scowling, he motioned to Orvar.
The vaettir had begun to stir with the setting sun. They seemed to take their respite in daylight—the only reason he’d caught them at all, most like. And they were about to leave again. Orvar stood swiftly, drew a bead, and loosed. The twang of the bow drew their eyes but not fast enough. The man’s arrow struck one of the males in the shoulder, spun him around and dropped him.
The vaettr screamed in pain like any man might.
The moment Orvar loosed, Starkad raced for the vaettir. As he did so, Afzal charged, shamshir in hand, followed by Hervor who had drawn that shining runeblade. The female vaettir ran to the fallen male while the other two rose to meet the charging warriors.
The sun winked out.
The vaettir Afzal was rushing dropped to all fours and arched his back. A primal snarl echoed off the canyon walls.
Starkad faltered. Oh fuck. He had missed his guess.
The vaettr’s neck elongated, popping and shifting, as did his snout.
Teeth jutted from the creature’s mouth, growing pointed and sharp, even as his legs melded together. His flesh grew dark, slick. The creature barked loudly.
A wereseal—finfolk. A thrust of its tail sent it skittering over the ice toward Afzal. The boy panicked, stumbling backward.
Hervor leapt in there and cleaved her runeblade into the seal’s face. It barked again, this time in sharp pain.
Starkad’s own feet skidded on ice as he ran. The Axe and Tiny had engaged another seal, while Ivar and Tiny chased after the female who had headed for the river.
The only light came from Hervor’s sword, shining like a tiny sun.
An arrow sprouted from a seal’s meaty flesh, but Orvar’s aim was off. The darkness must have interfered.
Starkad stumbled as he slid to a stop before the finfolk Orvar had shot. Hervor seemed to have the other one in hand. The seal barked, angling for the water. Starkad interposed himself.
“Resume your human form!”
The seal barked at him, glanced at the cavern. The first arrow had popped out of his shoulder when he’d shifted his form, but he was trailing blood.
The Axe screamed in agony. Starkad spun. The seal they fought had sunk its teeth into the Axe’s knees and all but ripped his leg off. The man had fallen, still clutching his axe, while Tiny hacked at the beast with his sword.
In Starkad’s moment of distraction, the wounded seal surged past him and dove into the river.
Hervor bellowed and hewed off her seal’s head.
They weren’t going to get a single prisoner unless Tiny sto
pped. And given the rage with which he’d set upon the one who’d hurt the Axe, that didn’t seem likely.
A horrid sound rang out from the cavern, something between a moan and a growl. Not a sound shifters made.
Not a sound aught human made either.
No, but Starkad knew that sound.
In the darkness, pinpoints of red light opened. Eyes lit with hatred of all life.
Maybe the blood had woken it. Maybe the screams. Maybe the light from Hervor’s cursed sword. Whatever the cause, Starkad knew what was coming.
“Fall back!” he bellowed.
The creature that emerged from the cavern moved like a warrior in pain. Bits of sallow flesh clung to exposed bone, reaching out from beneath armor that had survived the test of time better than the draug itself. It bore sword and shield and no doubt knew how to use them.
Hervor spun on the dead warrior, sword readied before her.
Starkad rushed to her side. “Leave this creature to me. Fall back with the others.”
“Starkad!” she said. She was pointing at the cavern.
More pairs of glowing red eyes were advancing. At least a dozen pairs.
“Master!” Afzal shouted.
He glanced at the boy. The ice behind them had split. Skeletal hands erupted from that ice, as more of the draugar began to claw their way free.
“We have stumbled upon the gates of Hel,” Tiny said. The big man was dragging the Axe away.
His assessment was hard to argue with. Starkad had fought draugar on rare occasions. He had never faced an army of them.
Orvar had scrambled down the slope and was joining the others as they retreated.
The nearest draug lunged at Starkad. He parried on one sword and attacked with the other. The draug blocked on its shield with practiced ease. They fell into the dance as more and more of the creatures advanced. Their war cries sounded more like hisses of things that hated life and light.
Starkad cut the draug’s leg out from under it. It fell to the ice, then began to claw its way toward him. He leapt backward. “Retreat! Fall back!”
Ivar was hacking at one that had emerged from the ice. “Retreat where? The cocks are blocking us in!”
Hervor roared, shearing a draug’s shield, armor, and body with her runeblade. The creature dropped to the ice and did not move. At least something could kill these monsters.
“Go!” he shouted at her. “Go, forward.” He pointed off along the river’s path with his sword. “Find a way out of the canyon!”
“We will never make it! You think to outrun the dead?” Another of the creatures flung itself at her, swinging a massive axe.
Starkad’s blade caught it in mid-air, stalling it just enough it did not reach her. Hervor hacked off the top of its skull. Its blood didn’t flow.
Ivar cried out in pain. A draug’s blade had torn through his armor above his gut. Bragi fell back, pressed hard by two of the dead warriors. They would all die. Die and rise as draugar themselves. To suffer in eternal torment.
A black arrow sprouted from a draug on Bragi, and the creature faltered, then crumpled into the ice. And how many magic arrows did Orvar have left?
Starkad shoved Hervor away, then moved to fight off four of the draugar. The dead worked together, a fighting unit. They tried to flank him.
Starkad was faster, able to parry them all, but not attack. They fought without fear, without caring about wounds or pain. And even when he struck them, they barely slowed.
“Get everyone out of here!” he shouted at her again. “I’ll buy you time.”
“Release me!” the Axe bellowed. “Starkad, go! You’re the only one who can protect them. I’m dead from this wound anyway.”
Starkad ducked an axe blow, clipped the draug on the face, and rolled away. They were on him again in an instant, but he saw the Axe had worked free of Tiny’s grasp and was standing, his own axe and shield in his hand. He could not walk, but he was trying to hold the ground.
And he cast a look of pleading Starkad’s way in that instant.
He wanted his death to mean something. He wanted to see Valhalla.
Starkad parried a sword blow and kicked the draug into its fellows. Then he turned and ran for the canyon. Hervor had done as he had bid, ushering Afzal and the others forward. They were running, skidding over ice, her sword lighting the way.
Starkad cast one last look at the Axe. A dozen draugar blocked his view already, swarming over the old veteran.
Starkad ran after the others.
They had reached a dip in the canyon, where icy rocks rose in a pile.
“Up, up, up!” Hervor shouted, pointing.
Tiny was already scaling those rocks, and he yanked Bragi up after him.
Starkad sheathed his swords and scrambled up the rocks as well. The Axe’s death would buy them a few breaths at most. The draugar would follow them up the cliff. “Run! When you reach the top, just fucking run!”
Orvar unshouldered his bow once again. Standing with legs wide on a rock halfway up the cliff, the man nocked another black arrow. The draugar were closing in. Orvar loosed. The draug it struck shuddered and collapsed in a heap.
The others had already climbed up past him.
Arrows rained down from above, impacting the draugar but barely slowing them. Starkad glanced up. Hervor and Ivar were both shooting from above.
Starkad leapt up to the next highest rock. His feet slipped, skidded, and he had to steady himself on the cliff. No time. No chance to breathe.
He pulled himself up another rock and another.
The moment he crested the top, he shoved Hervor back. “Those arrows are not doing troll shit to them. Run!”
Ivar loosed again. And again.
Orvar had always tried to save his magic arrows, recover them whenever he could, Starkad knew. But that hardly mattered if they all died here. Now, the man launched another black arrow, grimacing as he did so.
“Die you cock-stomping troll cocks!” Ivar bellowed.
Starkad ripped the skin of oil from his belt and popped the cork. He poured it over the rocks they had just climbed. He’d used so much to trap that Niflung. Had to hope this was enough. “Hold them off a moment!” He struck flint to steel, but it took agonizing breaths to light a damn torch. When it finally caught he flung it down onto the rocks.
Draugar had already surged over them, climbing on each other in a mad rush to add the three of them to their numbers. The flames erupted around them, engulfing several of the creatures and turning them into blazing effigies lit by unholy light.
Starkad grabbed Ivar by the back of his mail and sent him running off after the others.
And Starkad fled, Orvar beside him.
25
His lungs burned, his legs ached. The others were barely standing, and still he pushed them on. Hervor stumbled, and he grabbed her by the back of the neck and forced her to rise, to keep running. The dead would not stop, not until dawn. Which was long, long hours away.
Afzal was clutching his ribs, gasping. Starkad was failing them all. They would all die, and he could do naught to save them.
The ground here held less ice and had grown rocky. Cracked red earth spread out as far as he could see before them, broken up by numerous shallow craters.
Ahead, steam erupted through the mist like a waterspout. Everyone fell short, Afzal actually dropping to his knees.
It had grown warm. Another geyser erupted farther into the rock fields. This whole area stank like rotten eggs. Sulfur?
“Out of Niflheim … and into … Muspelheim,” Ivar said between pants.
Muspelheim. The World of Fire. Where the fire spirits Afzal’s people bound came from. They used fire spirits to drive away the mist and its dangers. Like draugar.
“Get over by the geysers,” Starkad said.
“We’re like to get burned there,” Tiny complained.
Starkad shook his head. Better a little burned than frozen and cleaved by draugar. “Make camp as close to the geyser
s as you safely can.”
Ivar trembled, clutching his abdomen, so Starkad helped him toward the camp he’d selected.
“My gut feels like a beetle cock.”
“I don’t even know what that means, Loud. But I don’t smell shit, so maybe your bowels aren’t punctured.”
Ivar grunted at that. They both knew if the blade had pierced his intestines, he was in for a long, painful dying. From the look of him, that might still be his fate.
Everyone collapsed, none bothering with tents or bedrolls. Nor did they have wood for fire.
Orvar stumbled from one man to the next, checking injuries of his crew. Their leader was swearing under his breath. The man was losing it, wasn’t he? They’d known dangers would lurk here, but Yngvi had known or said naught of an army of the dead.
Tiny sat with his hands over his knees, staring at one of the geysers. The vent blew out small trails of steam every so often, but the big man barely reacted to it.
“Are you injured?” Orvar asked the big man.
Tiny snorted. “Here and there. Naught serious.” He scratched his head. “Axe took that beast right in front. It was fast as aught I ever saw.”
Orvar nodded. “Shifters always are.”
Starkad grimaced. “I should’ve known, should’ve …”
“It’s not your fault, Eightarms,” Bragi said. “We’ve all heard tales of finfolk snatching up men and women. I just always thought it mere tales, wild fancies of the far reaches of the North Realms.”
Maybe. But Starkad had seen varulfur and berserkir, so why shouldn’t other shifters be real as well?
“He was a good man,” Tiny said. “Died well.”
Starkad grunted at that. The Axe had bought them their escape. Without him, they’d have not made those rocks at all. “He fought for the Ynglings from way back. Never forgave himself for Alrik and Eirik, always somehow thought he should have protected them. You can’t save men from themselves.”
“No, Eightarms,” Bragi said. “You can’t save a man from himself.”
He had no interest in whatever lesson the skald thought he was trying to impart. Instead, Starkad rose and made his way over to where Afzal had fallen. The young man lay on his side, eyes closed. Asleep?
