Days of Endless Night (Runeblade Saga Book 1)

by Matt Larkin

  Starkad found himself forced to agree, though he let his hands drift toward his sword hilts. If it was the end, he would go down fighting. The finfolk would pay very dearly for this treachery. That, at least, he could promise them. Kiviuq met his gaze now. The wereseal’s hand went to the bone knife at his belt.

  “Wait, wait!” Afzal said. “Master … I will stay.”

  Starkad spun on the Serklander. “No you won’t. You don’t have to do this.”

  “I promised to repay my debt to you.”

  “Troll shit. Where I go, you go. Remember?” It had been that way for years now. Afzal was his constant companion. Whatever dire adventure he found himself on, the Serklander was there to hold the torch, offer wisdom, and occasionally talk him out of his worst ideas.

  “I could never have repaid my debt with a blade. But this will save your life, Master. I would have Naliajuk … if she wishes me.”

  The finfolk woman looked to Hervor, then to Starkad.

  “Don’t do this,” Starkad protested.

  Afzal smiled. “You know it is the way. You call it urd.”

  “Fuck fate. Come back to Sviarland. We have some treasure from Nordri, gold, Afzal. You want a woman, we’ll find you a real one.”

  “You,” Naliajuk said. “You insult?”

  “No,” Hervor said before he could respond. “He doesn’t mean it.”

  The finfolk woman gnawed her lip. Looked to Afzal. “You. You choose me?”

  Afzal nodded.

  “Mmmm.” Naliajuk looked at Hervor, then frowned. “Oath. Weapon oath.”

  Afzal hesitated a bare moment. “I swear upon my father’s sword.”

  The shifter nodded then and pointed to the boat. “You. We take you ship.”

  Starkad ground his teeth. This wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Afzal Ibn Hakim. As a boy, he’d lost everything. Dragged to the North Realms by his father only to have the man slain. Starkad had never asked him to follow as a servant, but he had. He always had.

  He could not be gone now.

  He felt numb as he settled back into the boat. Afzal nodded at him again. This was what he wanted, his choice, his sacrifice. His honor. And Starkad had no right to steal it from him.

  And yet.

  A long time ago, Starkad had lost his little brother. And then, somehow, without seeking it, he had found another. And now that brother was being taken from him as well.

  On a bench before him, Tiny sheathed the runeblade.

  Starkad’s hands twitched at his sickening desire to strike down the man and claim his prize. Instead, he gripped the boat’s side. This was his curse. This was his curse making him think this. He ought not to … ought not to even consider betraying Tiny.

  The man had fought bravely …

  And still. Still, Starkad had to have the blade. He had to. It was a physical ache in his gut, demanding he claim the greatest treasures for himself. Even knowing his curse might cause him to lose that in turn.

  Afzal’s hand fell upon Starkad’s shoulder.

  Maybe the boy knew. He’d been with Starkad for so long, he understood the curse. And he understood courage … maybe more than even Starkad. He was staying here, making his life here, so that Starkad, Hervor, and Ecgtheow could be the few to escape Thule.

  And the only way to honor that was to maintain peace between them.

  So fuck the blade and fuck the curse. Starkad would not dishonor another brother. He breathed out a long sigh and cast a nod of acknowledgment at the boy.

  In the end, the Serklander had saved him.

  54

  Hervor sat in the boat, across from Naliajuk. Beyond her sat Afzal and Starkad. Of course, Hervor could draw Tyrfing, lunge across the boat, and kill Naliajuk. The young man probably wouldn’t appreciate being saved that way—and it would break his oath.

  There were people out there who had earned her wrath, and she would focus it on them. Naliajuk was … just different. Very different, Hervor supposed. But the woman had shown a hint of a smile when Afzal had asked for her. Maybe the finfolk had grown so used to having to abduct human spouses, they did not know how to react, how to feel, should one choose them.

  And since then, the woman kept smiling, casting glances at the Serklander over her shoulder.

  “Part of me will almost miss you,” Hervor said.

  In the distance, their ship rose up out of the mist. Still waiting for them. A more loyal crew than the one she’d sailed to Samsey with.

  “You. You miss me?”

  “Hmm, yes.”

  “Why?”

  Hervor chuckled. “Odin alone knows.”

  “Odin?”

  “King of the Gods?”

  Naliajuk shrugged, and Hervor laughed. How could she even explain that?

  Maybe she didn’t need to. “This island will not be safe for you, for your kind.”

  Naliajuk gnawed on her lip, nodded. She stuck her hand inside her fur coat, fished around for something, then came out holding an ivory carving of a walrus. She thrust it at Hervor. “You. You don’t miss me.”

  Hervor took the carving and ran her fingers over the smooth surface, not quite certain what to say. No one had ever given her aught like that before. A gift without an ulterior motive, without bargain. All because Naliajuk wanted her to remember her and not miss her. “I …” She sighed and tucked the statuette into her own coat. “Thank you.”

  Naliajuk continued to row until the boat drew up along their ship.

  The remaining crew shouted greetings and helped Hervor, Starkad, and Tiny on board.

  She looked back to where Afzal remained sitting beside Naliajuk. The Serklander had probably saved all their lives. She raised a hand in acknowledgment. No words could do justice to the sacrifice. She hoped he could understand that.

  “You are the bravest of us,” Tiny said.

  Afzal chuckled. “All I have to do is marry a beautiful woman. That’s not courage—it’s wisdom.”

  “Boy, you plan to live on an island filled with draugar. A frozen pit of misery shat out of Hel’s own arse.”

  Starkad cuffed the big man, and Hervor frowned. “Afzal,” Starkad said. “Just say the word.”

  “I already gave my word, Master.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  The Serklander nodded. “Then goodbye … Starkad.”

  “Farewell. Little brother.”

  Afzal smiled at the term, and then Naliajuk shoved the boat away from their ship.

  Starkad stood watching them go, glowering. Finally, Hervor left him.

  “Get us away from this cursed place,” Tiny ordered the crew. “Toward Faeroerne with all haste.”

  Over the sea, the sun had begun to rise, banishing the mist and glaring off the waters. Hervor shuddered and followed Tiny to where he collapsed on a bench. The wind was up and in their favor, so the men set the sails. Just as well since she suspected none of the three of them could have manned an oar.

  She had to pray the wind stayed in their favor until Faeroerne. Sailing in winter was a horrific risk … just not as bad as staying on Thule.

  Hervor sunk down in front of Tiny. “So. You have a runeblade.”

  “So do you. Nine runeblades in all the world, and two are on this ship. How strange is urd.”

  She shrugged. Fate was a concern for gods. She had to make her own course. She had always done so, though little good had come from it thus far. Arrow’s Point—Orvar-Oddr—was dead. That was a good thing. It was good. Though his face, his eyes had held the shock of betrayal. As if he could not imagine she would have avenged her kin.

  Which made him a fool.

  “You are deep in thought,” Tiny said.

  “Huh? Oh. Wondering what you will do now.”

  Tiny grunted. “I must return to King Gylfi. He will want to know what we found and that no colony is like to thrive on Thule.”

  Hervor snorted. “Thrive? Not unless they plan to cut down an army of draugar first. And send several men and women to mar
ry seals.”

  “Indeed. Brave boy.”

  Yes, Afzal. Back to Afzal. Starkad remained by the gunwale, knuckles white from clutching it so hard. “They knew each other a long time.”

  “I think so.”

  She sighed and rose, then drifted to where Starkad stood. “I’m sorry about your … little brother.”

  He didn’t look at her. “All men make their own choices.”

  “Women too.”

  “Indeed. And you … well, you fought bravely.”

  She leaned on the rail beside him, trying not to smile. “Must have been hard for you to say.”

  The man mumbled something under his breath.

  Hervor sighed. “So. You will tell King Yngvi we failed here.”

  “Failed?”

  “We didn’t take Thule.”

  “Perhaps. But reclaiming that runeblade might well have been all Odin ever cared about. I find it doubtful the Ás wanted the island itself. Especially if he had an idea what lurked in Nordri.”

  “Hmph.” She stared at the glittering waters. Aught beyond her ken might dwell in those unknown depths. Much as such hidden dangers had lurked beneath Thule’s surface. And maybe Odin could predict such things. But Starkad spoke as if he could understand any of the Aesir. “You find it easy to guess the mind of a god, do you?”

  Starkad spit in the ocean, then turned away from it and sank down onto a bench.

  Not going to answer then. Fair enough. They all had their secrets, didn’t they? Especially her.

  “What will you do now, woman?”

  A difficult question, after all. Because of her many secrets. Her many enemies. Her reckless oath to bring down the whole Yngling dynasty. And that meant destroying Yngvi and his brother Alf, whom Starkad may or may not have held special loyalty to. She blew out a breath and sank down beside him.

  Not a man she wanted as an enemy. And not only because of his prowess, great though it was.

  He had saved her life on several occasions. The man may have had the personality of a troll’s arse, but she couldn’t hate him. Could almost even … what? Want his approval? After all, to hear him say she had fought bravely was high praise. And who didn’t like praise?

  “After this winter? I guess I’ll be seeking more glory. Wealth. You and Tiny claimed treasures from Nordri, but I didn’t. I have naught to show for this whole endeavor.” Naught save for one dead enemy. The first, clearest step on her journey, accomplished.

  Now she faced the more difficult task. How to destroy a kingdom, one well loved and strong. She lacked the wealth to raise an army against them. But there were other ways to kill men than war. As Orvar-Oddr had learned, sometimes growing close to an enemy offered greater advantage.

  “You earned a share,” Starkad said. “You’ll not return home empty-handed.”

  She nodded in thanks without really looking at Starkad.

  Orvar had learned a hard lesson from her. But he had learned it. That she had seen in his eyes, the glare of hatred. Of betrayal. Not a look she relished. And yet, he had earned it. Now he would know the suffering he had heaped upon her kin. And in the end, she hoped she’d see that look on Yngvi and Alf’s faces too.

  But not on Starkad’s.

  Not if she could avoid it.

  55

  Pain lapped at his flesh like waves upon the shore. No, not just his flesh. His mind and soul were swept up in that current, tossed apart and flung raw and bleeding back into a corpse.

  Lifeless but not still.

  Denied stillness, denied quiet. No respite. No peace.

  Not without revenge.

  Orvar opened his eyes. They seemed clouded with a haze, tinted red. Though he could see in the dark, see shifting hues of hot and cold, moving about. Draugar fighting with one another over the prince’s crown. A large draug held it now, marching into the throne room with the crown held high above its head.

  Betrayed.

  Oh, she had betrayed him with such ardor, such zeal as could be repaid only in kind. A writhing hatred slithered through his mind like a serpent, venomous and hissing, coiling about his heart.

  Whispering, ever.

  Vengeance.

  Orvar rose and hefted a sword from the floor. All his flesh protested his unnatural life, seized up in pain. And yet, despite that agony—or because of it—unholy strength drove him. Always, toward singular purpose.

  Vengeance.

  He flung himself forward, roaring. The sound unlike any he had ever made in life. A shriek of pain only the damned could utter. Only the damned could understand true, unbridled suffering. His blade bit deep into the neck of the draug holding the crown. The undead creature fell forward, dropping his prize.

  Orvar spun, hacked into another draug that ran forward. He twisted, cleaved a third.

  A fourth.

  All pain. But not fatigue. Not exhaustion.

  Just the endless well of rage and agony.

  Vengeance.

  Yes. All of those who had betrayed him. The bitch shieldmaiden, of course. He would rend her limbs from her body. Tear her spine out through her mouth. Drive spikes through her eyes.

  Vengeance.

  He swept up the fallen crown. The prince’s oversized helm would not have fit him, but this piece. It could be forged into something that would. It would take time.

  First, he’d have to unite the wretched. The writhing, suffering horde out in those streets. Leaderless. Themselves betrayed just as he was. Betrayed by life, by the living. Trapped in eternal torment, unable to sate this burning thirst to be revenged.

  Oh, but he would. Vengeance upon Hervor, for the bitter, traitorous stroke that had felled him in his moment of glory. Upon Starkad and Tiny for leaving him to rot. Upon Yngvi and Alf and Gylfi and every last kingdom of man. Upon the gods themselves for failing him, casting him out. For failing the world.

  As all gods had.

  All save Hel.

  Vengeance.

  The goddess moved in him now. He felt her. Her breath keeping the ultimate decay abated.

  Well then. First, to claim a throne.

  And then.

  And then.

  Vengeance.

  Epilogue

  The Dӧglinar prince had long lain buried in the ruins of Nordri, hand clutched around the runeblade Naegling. There, it had offered scant boon to any. Odin’s visions had revealed a wakening among the draugar, a stirring that would cost lives of men in Midgard. Such a price seemed acceptable to bring Naegling back into the world.

  Back into the hands of men Odin might use come Ragnarok.

  Disguised as another old man, Odin sat in a feast hall in Sviarland. The revelers might think him drunk, asleep at the table, but Odin cared naught for their assumptions. He let his mind drift into Starkad’s dreams. As far as Odin knew, Starkad had never made any use of his latent gift for the Sight. The man would have had dreams of the past and future, cryptic and maddening. Unaware of his gift, he might only think it part of his curse.

  Tormented by his losses, by his crimes, and by dark visions of the future.

  Not unlike Odin himself.

  Yes, Odin could see his own mirror in Tyr’s son.

  Had Starkad proved a more willing servant, Odin might have done more to obviate his suffering. But the man was obstinate and deliberately chose to distance himself from the Aesir and their graces. Such an attitude hardly earned him any more aid than Odin had already granted him.

  Willing or not, Starkad did present a useful tool. A man Odin could reach and steer, one who oft seemed unaware of the prodding. And one who proved exceptionally good at inciting the chaos Odin needed to enact his greater plans.

  Having found Naegling—and not even claimed it for himself—Starkad would already be well primed to seek his next challenge. He could never stand to stay long in one place, nor let any potential wealth lie unclaimed. His wanderlust and greed ate away at his soul with each passing day. The more he tried to fight those urges, the more wickedly they consumed him. />
  Yes, Odin would have pitied the man. Had Midgard been able to afford pity. But the world had no room for it.

  If Odin faltered, if he failed, humanity died.

  With such stakes, the happiness of a single man meant naught at all. And so, as with Gylfi, Odin would use Starkad as long as he could, as hard as could, until naught but ash remained of the man. If he pushed hard enough, Odin just might buy mankind a little more time.

  All Odin had to do was ensure Starkad would seek out the next of the lost runeblades. It would take Odin time to determine where to send the man, of course. But until then … a gentle prod from time to time, and he might engender an obsession in the man.

  Starkad, after all, was wont to be taken by obsession.

  And before they were done, Odin would see a great many more deeds done by the man.

  Deeds great and glorious. And dark.

  For such was Starkad’s urd.

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  Author’s Ramblings

  The Poetic Edda contains a poem called The Waking of Angantyr in which is recounted the majority of the first chapter of Days of Endless Night. It’s part of a greater cycle of tales (the Tyrfing Cycle) that also includes the Saga of King Heidrik the Wise. Hervor appears in minor parts during this latter saga, primarily as the mother of the main character, though we can find some background information on her as well.

  As one expects in myth, when someone warns the hero “don’t do this, it’ll result in tragedy,” the hero goes and does it anyway. And it results in tragedy. Hervor takes the cursed sword. Bad things happen to her and everyone around her.

  Starkad’s tales are even more complicated as he appears in numerous stories and sagas as a violent, wandering anti-hero guilty of great crimes as well as great accomplishments. Discerning readers may also remember him from the other books in the The Ragnarok Era series. He gets around. He’s also one of the most complex and interesting “heroes” in Norse mythology.