Days of Endless Night (Runeblade Saga Book 1) Read online

  Everything but the falls themselves had frozen, and even amid them, ice crusted over rocks in great mounds that looked to have been built over winter after icy winter.

  The others looked as bemused as her, staring into the abyss. Starkad, who had somehow become their leader, stood motionless, as if transfixed by the Otherworldly beauty and horror of the vista. Hervor could not blame him. Bragi mumbled lines in verse, as if trying to find words to capture the experience. Afzal had cupped his hands in what she could only assume was prayer. Tiny was supporting Ivar, who had turned sallow, probably burning with fever.

  Orvar stood at the gorge’s edge, staring down into the abyss. One good shove …

  “I’m going to build my palace up here,” Ivar said, though his words sounded half garbled. “Live like … an Ás. Claim the whole damned island. Ivarsland. That’s what I’m going to call it.”

  “I think this place is already claimed,” Tiny said. “By Hel.”

  “Hel can suck my—”

  “Weapons,” Starkad said.

  “Weapons?” Ivar said. “I don’t usually call it—”

  Starkad drew his blades and pointed one in the direction they had come from, over the plateau.

  Hervor stared into the mist, seeing naught.

  At first.

  Then the shapes emerged, clambering over rocks, advancing toward them. The dead came from the mist, a few at first. Then more and more—more than she could easily count.

  “Dead cocks trying to steal my palace,” Ivar said while unshouldering his bow.

  “How many of those magic arrows you have left?” Starkad asked Orvar.

  “Uh, one.”

  “Then shoot the first one,” Starkad said. “After that, those with bows try to put arrows in their eyes. Maybe we can blind them.”

  Ivar chuckled. “He thinks I’m Arrow’s Point to make a shot like that.”

  Hervor’s fingers brushed over Tyrfing’s golden hilt. It was humming, calling her.

  Eyes lit with hellish gleams appeared, drawing nearer.

  “Can we run?” she asked.

  “Dawn is long off,” Starkad answered. “We’ll not make it. Not all of us.”

  Tiny slapped her on the back. “Let’s see the runeblade one more time, eh?”

  Yes. Tonight, Tyrfing would feast not on the living but on the dead. She jerked it free of its sheath. It had grown warm, angry. Like her.

  Orvar, Ivar, and Bragi launched several rounds of arrows at the advancing draugar. The first, hit by that magic arrow, crumpled in a heap and did not rise. The others barely slowed. Shafts stuck out of their chests, shields, even skulls. And still they came on.

  “I hate dead people,” Ivar said. Their bowmen switched to melee weapons.

  And the draugar surged among them. Hervor lost track of the others as she hewed, ducked, blocked on her shield. A draug with an axe leapt at her. She jutted her shield out, smacking it in the face and sending it crashing onto the ice. Another advanced with a sword. Tyrfing sheared its weapon arm off at the elbow.

  Both the fallen creature and the one-armed one continued to come after her, forcing her back. The one-armed one grabbed the rim of her shield and pulled. Felt like it would rip her arm off. Hervor let her arm slip free of the straps and the draug fell over backward from its own effort. She spun, swiping Tyrfing at the other draug, which had risen to its feet. The runeblade cut through its skull. This time it did not rise.

  The one with her shield did, though, and ran at her swinging it like a weapon. Hervor dodged backward and swung Tyrfing. It cracked the shield, wood splintering under her blow. Shame. That had been a good shield, well made.

  The draug tossed aside the useless boards and lunged at her like it meant to strangle her with its single, rotting hand. She couldn’t get Tyrfing back into position fast enough, so she dove to the side, rolling.

  Another draug jumped on her. Its weight knocked her on her back. The stench of decaying flesh hit her in a wave.

  The draug atop her chopped down with an axe. Hervor ducked her head to one side, let go of Tyrfing, then caught its arm with both hands. It continued to drive the axe toward her face with unearthly strength. Those glowing eyes were boring into her, as if it would consume her body and soul alike. It opened its mouth, revealing canines unusually sharp, dripping with blackish saliva. That mouth lowered toward her face even as its axe pressed down.

  Hervor cried out, straining to keep the rusted axe blade from biting into her forehead.

  The draug’s head flew free from its shoulders, and all the strength went out of its limbs. She thrust it aside, snatched up Tyrfing. Starkad stood nearby, already engaging more draugar. Odin’s spear, he was fighting five … no six of them. And had still diverted himself to save her.

  Panting, she scrambled back to her feet even as two more of the dead warriors charged her. When not chasing prey, they ambled like men in agony. But on the battlefield, they were every bit as fast as the living and twice as strong. At least.

  But she was no novice. She had trained her whole life with a blade. She was the daughter of Angantyr, famed berserk and champion of Bolmso. Hervor bellowed a war cry and flew into the nearest draug. It parried, dodged, fought like a man.

  With both hands, she grasped Tyrfing and chopped straight down at the creature. It parried. Or tried. Its blade snapped in half, and Tyrfing bit into its skull. She jerked the blade free just in time to dodge the attack of the other draug.

  The impact numbed her arms. She gave more ground. Another of the creatures broke off from Starkad and charged her. They must have realized Tyrfing was the greatest threat. And they’d come to take it from her, to try to steal her family’s legacy.

  Over her dead fucking body.

  She bellowed again, defying them. Exhaustion had slowed her, but she had left that behind.

  Father …

  She would do him proud.

  One of the draugar bore spear and shield. It thrust at her. She leapt back, knocking the point aside with her sword.

  The other rushed her with a two-handed axe. It swung the weapon in a great overhand cleave. She barely twisted out of the way. The axe split the ice by her feet and bit a full foot down into it. The draug jerked on its weapon like it had stuck.

  Hervor swept Tyrfing across its neck and spun, turning to face the spearman again. Not fast enough. The spearpoint caught her left arm, scraped along her mail, and tore a chunk out of the iron and her flesh both. The blow spun her around, screaming. She was stumbling to her knees, but she continued to turn, swinging Tyrfing. The runeblade lopped off the draug’s leg and sent it crashing to the ground the same time as her.

  Screaming she clambered atop it and ran it through. Blood streamed down her arm.

  She looked up.

  Tiny was hacking away with his broadsword. Starkad had gone to help Afzal who was hard-pressed, unable to hold the dead back with his curved blade.

  And three of the draugar surrounded Ivar. One had caught him in a bear hug. Even over the raging battle, Hervor could have sworn she heard bone breaking in that embrace. Ivar buried his axe in the draug’s skull. Another of the creatures latched onto his arm and bit down on his shoulder.

  Hervor stumbled to her feet, ran toward him.

  The third draug drove a sword straight through his back. Ivar shuddered. His head went limp.

  Hervor slashed across his killer’s chest before it could free the blade. The draug dropped. The one that had bit Ivar released him and flung itself at Orvar.

  The pair of them stumbled toward the waterfall’s edge. They struggled, caught in an embrace, the draug crushing the life out of Orvar.

  Hervor glanced around. Mist blanketed everything, and no ally in sight …

  This was it.

  This was her chance.

  She stalked closer. Finally, she could avenge her family. And none of the others would know. They’d think the draugar responsible. She launched herself at the pair, swinging Tyrfing. Her blow sheared through th
e draug and sent Orvar pitching over backward.

  Falling into the gorge.

  Vanishing into mist.

  She’d done it …

  A heavy impact drove her backward, and she fell to the ground beneath another draug, skittering close to the edge of the plateau she had just shoved Arrow’s Point off. The draug had no weapon but rained blows upon her with its hands. Even through her armor, those blows felt like getting hit with a mace. Blood stung her eyes.

  She flailed, trying to dislodge the creature.

  It bit her shoulder as it had done to Ivar. Its maw was at once burning and freezing, sending pulses of agony through her. She shrieked in agony, twisted. Somehow she managed to roll atop it. It tore great gouges out of her shoulder. She wanted to weep from the pain. Instead, she somehow managed to rise halfway. It shoved her again, and she fell onto her back. It leapt for her. She jerked her knee up to her face and kicked out. Her crampons drove through the draug’s eyes and skull. The creature’s arms flailed at her.

  She pushed away with her leg, lifting it off the ground. “Hurts, doesn’t it!”

  With her left hand, she patted around until she closed on Tyrfing’s hilt. Awkward, but if Starkad could fight with either hand … she rammed the blade upward, impaling the draug. It struggled a moment more before going limp. Finally, she dropped her leg and rolled. It took both hands pushing against the corpse to free her foot from its skull.

  A chilling hand grabbed her injured shoulder and hefted her aloft, heedless of her screams. She tried to grab up Tyrfing. The draug that held her kicked the blade. It skittered along the ice and pitched over the plateau, falling into the rising mist of the gorge and vanishing into the night.

  “No!” she shrieked. “No!” Father’s sword. Her legacy, her inheritance! Her honor, her oath, her life.

  She slapped the draug’s skull with her left hand. She might as well have punched a wall. It raised her to its face, lifting her off the ground with one hand. Those glaring, crimson pinpoints of light. Reaching into her. Hating her with a fire beyond imagination. Its loathing of her so eclipsed her hatred of Arrow’s Point and the Ynglings, she felt like a child having a tantrum.

  This was the enmity of Hel, a cold hatred of all living things. Of her.

  Tears welled at the corners of her eyes. Pain, fear, or some other primal emotion she could not name.

  With a gasp, she tore free her eating knife from its sheath around her neck. This she buried in one of those hateful eyes. The draug flailed, spun. Shrieked in defiance of her petty attack. It shoved her free. She stumbled backward, skidding on ice.

  Her foot slipped.

  And she pitched backward, tumbling into the mist.

  Part III

  Fourth Moon

  Year 27, Age of the Aesir

  29

  The last of the draugar fell into a heap. Spewing spittle, panting, Tiny hewed into the still crawling corpse, then stomped on the skull. At last it shuddered and gave out.

  Starkad wiped his swords in the snow. Gore and grime coated them, more than fresh blood. Vikar’s sword had chipped on a damn draug’s helm. Starkad stared at the blade’s edge in disgust. If he kept using it, his brother’s blade might actually break. It needed more tending than he could do here—a proper forge.

  “Master?” Afzal asked. The young man bore a gouge above his left eye and was favoring one arm.

  Starkad nodded at him, then looked to Bragi. “Stitch up Afzal’s cut before he loses too much blood.”

  “Hervor went over the gorge,” Afzal said. “We can’t find Orvar-Oddr at all.”

  “I saw her fall,” Starkad said. And Orvar must have gone over as well, if his body was not here.

  “Is she …”

  “Dead?” Starkad shrugged and turned to peer into the mist rising up beneath the falls. Yes, she was almost certainly dead. But they were all looking to him, wanting him to tell them they had a chance of escaping this island.

  Tiny knelt by Ivar’s corpse, mumbling about Odin and Valhalla.

  Bragi had moved to sit before Afzal, inspecting the wound but casting glances Starkad’s way. So it was like that. Four of them left, and they didn’t want to believe Hervor or Orvar dead.

  He glanced back at those falls. Could either have survived that? He couldn’t even judge how far down it was, but if they had fallen into water then … maybe? If so, neither would live long in the frigid cold.

  He blew out a long breath, then looked to the others. “Tiny. Burn the corpses, especially Ivar. We don’t want aught getting back up. Bragi, make sure everyone is fit to move when I get back.”

  “What are you going to do?” Tiny asked.

  In answer, Starkad strode toward the cliff and began to lower himself down, feet first. The rocks were slick with mist and ice. Trying to climb down to the bottom would most likely end in a broken neck.

  Damn Hervor.

  Bitch didn’t even have the good sense to die where they could be sure of it. Now he had to go looking for her useless arse and rescue her like some maid in a skald’s tale. Except this whole endeavor was turning out more like a ghost story around a campfire than any tale he wanted a part of.

  His crampons scraped on ice.

  “Hervor!” he shouted down in the abyss. “Orvar!”

  No answer save the raging torrent of water across the gorge. Deeper and deeper he climbed. His arms ached after swinging those swords, after too long without sleep, without rest. Without sunlight, save a few hours. The far north held a perilous appeal, a place where a man could test himself to the limits.

  Starkad had not yet found his limits, but it was beginning to look like he soon might.

  Ice crumbled away under his fingers. Starkad clutched tighter, pulling against the gorge wall. Under all that ice, numerous rocks jutted from the cliff’s side. In summer—as if there were summer here—he might have climbed this with more ease. But then, the challenge was why he had come.

  Still, it had come with a higher price than he’d expected. A lot of dead men. Rolf, the Axe, Ivar, and the others. Probably Orvar. And now a dead woman too. Another dead woman weighing him down, his fault. His mistake. And hers, Hel damn her. She had tricked her way onto this trek, and it had cost her. That knowledge ought to have absolved him of failing her.

  Somehow still his stomach felt inflamed, his cheeks burning.

  Hervor wasn’t Ogn. Bragi had said that. And still, she was dead. Had he been faster, maybe he could have saved her. The fastest man was the only one who counted. He thought he was the fastest. This night, he hadn’t been fast enough.

  Some hundred feet down, he came to a tiny ice shelf just above the water level. The falls crashed upon rocks, running out in a raging torrent of rapids. Those rapids would crush anyone caught in them, smash either of them like a broken toy and drag them under never to see daylight again.

  “Orvar!” Starkad edged closer. “Hervor!”

  Just the echoing cacophony of the waters, the rapids.

  “Can anyone hear me?”

  The shelf didn’t run far, but Starkad skirted the edge of it, back and forth. She had fallen here. Her broken body didn’t lay on the ice and that meant the rapids. He slammed the side of his fist against the ice of the gorge wall. She had no chance. Even had she survived the fall, she’d have drowned. And he’d never find her.

  “You stupid, stupid girl.” He paced the shelf again. “Damn you!”

  Hervor was not Ogn.

  But Starkad should have protected her.

  He had failed her, and he was failing the entire party.

  Panting with exhaustion, Starkad at last threw one arm over the top of the rise and yanked himself up on the ledge. The others sat there now, staring at him. Two pyres burned out over the ice field. They had heaped the draugar corpses together and set them alit. The smaller pyre—Ivar’s.

  Ivar the Loud.

  The man had escaped servitude in Nidavellir thanks to Orvar. He was a brute, a murderer. A mad man even, who enjoyed fig
hting even more than a man ought to. And now his daughter would never see her father again.

  Afzal scrambled to his feet and offered Starkad an arm, which he accepted. The Serklander helped him up. “You didn’t find them.”

  “No. There’s naught down there but rocks and rapids. They’re both gone.”

  “We’re all going to die.” Afzal said it without emotion. Coming from him, it sounded almost prophetic.

  But Starkad didn’t believe in prophecy.

  No … No. Fuck Odin and his riddling dreams.

  Starkad clapped Afzal on the shoulder. “If we die, we will die well. But plan to live, and I think you will.”

  The Serklander looked back to the south.

  “You want to flee, try to make it back to the ship.”

  Afzal nodded. “The draugar are dead so …”

  He trailed off at Starkad’s shaking head. “The one’s we burned are gone, yes. We don’t know how many more are left out there. Yes, we might make it back to the coast, reach the ship.”

  “Is that not what we ought to do then?” Tiny asked.

  Starkad scowled, cracked his neck, and looked to Bragi. Even the old skald seemed ready to give up. The man was running his thumb over the shaft of one of Orvar’s black arrows, recovered from a corpse. Like that sole missile might somehow protect him. Bragi’s age had caught up to him, no doubt.

  All the men wanted was for Starkad to tell them they could go home. But how could he do that? Turn away in defeat after all of this? No. Never. “I came here to find Nordri, and I damn well mean to do so. I will plunder the dverg city of its riches and so enrich our friends and allies. To do less would be to allow Orvar and all the others to have died in vain. And I will not allow that.”

  “They say lust for dverg gold has blinded many a man,” Bragi said.

  “Turn back if you wish. Go hide on the ship, and await my return. If you’re lucky, I will bring a trinket for you. I for one intend to find what we fucking came for.”