Days of Broken Oaths Page 14

  Or maybe it was unfair to lay the blame for the last on the Ás. Starkad had mistrusted Hervor when he thought her a man and mistrusted her twice over when he learned she’d lied about that. And somehow, along the way, he’d let the mistrust slip.

  I give you my oath of love, Hervor. I swear it! I swear it!

  Starkad was a fool. Almost the same trap he’d fallen into with Ogn, and this one more painful somehow. This time, a betrayal years in the making. Years he had stayed by her side. Allowed himself to believe that, despite his curse, he might yet have a life for himself. Might have … love.

  Hel, for so long he’d been afraid of the very godsdamned word.

  Rightly so, it seemed.

  Each step only served to refresh the pain jolting up his body. The hideous torment in his jaw. The growing weakness as his blood seeped away. So in the end, he would die down here in the sewers, alone and damned.

  Orvar had not been far off the mark in that guess.

  I swear to stay by your side, then.

  Starkad growled, the effort of it sending a fresh stream of blood gurgling out of his lips and down his beard, staining it even more crimson than it was.

  His oath … Broken. All their oaths … turned to shit.

  Oathbreakers, damned into the pit of Nidhogg, their souls to be feasted upon for eternity in the worst possible torment imaginable. Worst save perhaps for the torment of being betrayed. Of losing … losing …

  I give you my oath of love, Hervor.

  Lost.

  One of his feet gave out beneath him and he slammed down on his knee, the pain of that barely registering next to the other agonies already consuming him. To see daylight again …

  To escape this …

  “You are bleeding rather profusely.”

  A woman’s voice, but Starkad had not the strength to turn and look. Maybe never the strength to trust a woman again.

  Arete strolled around in front of him and crouched, level with him. She dipped a long-nailed finger into his beard, pulled it back bloody, and stuck it in her mouth, sucking it like the taste alone had her in ecstasy. “Mmmmmhmmm. Oh , yes.” She licked her lips. “Ancient, powerful …” Her face suddenly turned down, and she pursed her lips. “And poisoned. Bleh.”

  Starkad glared at her. Given the choice, maybe he’d have killed her. If one oath was broken, why not all of them? How could his word mean aught anymore?

  “Well,” Arete said, and drew her finger along his cheek, seeming careful of his nigh-unhinged jaw. “I’d offer you immortality once more, but I guess you can’t really answer, can you?” She murmured something nonsensical to herself. “No. I suppose, then, I will simply have to take silence as assent.”

  Starkad lurched away from her, trying to bring up the torch to swat her.

  Arete caught his arm, sneered at him, and shook her head. A swift twist of her wrist sent the torch clattering out of his hand. “That was uncalled for. I’m giving you eternal life. One day, maybe, you’ll be grateful for it. I will fulfill the full promise of the bargain the Ás king tempted you with. I will make you whole, and more than whole.”

  Another lie from another treacherous woman .

  He scrambled away on his arse, making almost no progress.

  The vampire woman suddenly grabbed him, one hand under his legs, the other around the back of his neck, and hefted him up. “I advise you not to scorn the gift. If your behavior continues, you will leave me no choice but to let you wither away. Either way, I think one thing has become abundantly clear, Starkad. One thing surely even you must admit now. There is no way back to the life you have known.”

  And all oaths were broken.

  Arete had brought Starkad to a dark chamber. Maybe he was beneath Nikolaos’s palace, he wasn’t sure. She’d laid him upon a stone slab. This place could’ve been a crypt. He had not the strength to care, so he’d closed his eyes, drifting in and out of consciousness.

  At one point, he realized someone had bandaged his jaw. The bandages had soaked through with blood. It wouldn’t be too much longer now, and Hel would have him.

  Even the pain had grown dim, distant, as Arete shook him, forcing him to look at her with his hazy eye.

  “It is not easy, what I intend, and it requires you to drink the blood of Kvasir, our most sacred relic. I have procured a sip for you, Starkad.” Arete frowned. “But you have to drink willingly. One way or another, you’ll die soon. When that happens, your soul will be lost in the Penumbra. Or … it could be bound here, tied to your corpse that you might go on with beautiful unlife. Choose immortality … and I will prepare the ritual.”

  He grunted, unable to speak. To choose it … She’d of fered it to him before and he’d scorned the gift. Maybe he’d been a fool then. He’d walked away from immortality for Vikar’s sake and look where that had brought him.

  But then, he’d accepted Odin’s foul bargain, betrayed Vikar to buy himself a few years’ more life. The Ás’s spell had changed him, warped him into something not quite human. But still close to a man. What Arete offered—there could be no deluding himself into thinking he could hold onto his humanity after this.

  Then again, what had humanity given him? Blood and death and betrayal. Everyone he’d cared for was gone or had turned on him. Even Hervor. Especially Hervor.

  His dark urd had brought him here.

  Arete was holding a bronze goblet in one hand, the other on Starkad’s chest. “Choose. Before it is too late. If you would claim what I offer, you must do so soon. I need time to prepare.”

  Choose …?

  As if life or urd had given him so very many choices. No, the strands of fate had guided him from one crime to the next. A strange, twisted life had brought him—a betrayer, a murderer—into the arms of one who’d visited those same crimes back upon him.

  Urd.

  Long had he wished to deny it, to hope he might be the master of his own existence. Hubris, perhaps. For urd bound all lives together.

  Starkad had walked away from immortality and that mistake had haunted him, until he’d leapt at Odin’s terrible bargain for a fraction of what he’d truly wanted. There would be no coming back if he turned from the gift a second time. No, he’d surely be bound for the gates of Hel.

  Maybe he deserved that, too. But some part of him wanted to forestall that end. To hold back the final darkness, and to … to be revenged upon those who had brought him here, urd or no.

  Ironic, really. The strange, winding cycles of vengeance had bound Hervor to Orvar-Oddr and the both of them to Starkad. An unending circle of blood. Why then should this not become the next step?

  Trying to fix Arete with his one good eye, he gave a slight nod. All he could offer in his current state. Odin had brought darkness into Starkad’s soul. This seemed but the extension of what the Ás king had begun so many years ago.

  Arete smiled—showing her fangs—and squeezed his hand. Then she drew away and bit her arm. She smeared the blood on her fingers, knelt and began drawing something on the floor.

  Starkad shut his eyes, letting out a shuddering breath. A coldness was seeping into his limbs. Hel’s breath was on his face. He could almost feel the servants of the dark goddess circling, clawing their way closer to his soul. Climbing up over his legs—they prickled with gooseflesh and needles. The damned were coming for him, coming to bring home one of their own.

  His heartbeat was already slowing. Too much blood loss. Not even Odin’s dark spell could abate the inevitable end of such a wound as Hervor had dealt him.

  He tried to flicker his eyes open, only saw shadows. Plays of light and darkness. Arete had lit candles, flitting across the room, seeming a wraith, almost.

  Hard to breathe …

  The ghost was at his side, tilting his head up. Forcing his lips apart a hair, the movement further ripping his jaw. She poured something hot into his mouth and over his wound. The taste of iron, of copper. Warm at first, then icy as it settled in his gut. The only thing he still clearly felt. Even the
pain was finally gone.

  “I wish I could tell you not to be afraid. Everything has its price. I will incant the ritual to help bind your soul to your corpse.”

  Corpse?

  “Before it is finished, I need to kill you.”

  Her voice sounded so far away. The play of light and shadow dimmed, fading slowly into blackness. Her voice changed in tone, now speaking the alien words of the Otherworlds. The sounds seemed to bombard his skull like a crushing weight. They bore down upon his chest.

  Upon his face.

  The pressure increased and the words grew louder. They echoed off the walls and reverberated off the air itself. A hint of vision came back to him, dim and cool, as if color and warmth had been siphoned out of the world.

  And in the shadows, creatures drew nigh, crawling on all fours like lizards, though they looked somewhat like foul perversions of the human form. Hairless, with skin that bled off wisps of shadow. Eyes that gleamed with cold blue light. And teeth like fangs, a whole maw of them, like a shark’s.

  The creatures skittered closer to him, crawling up the stone slab where he lay immobilized, dying. With razor-sharp claws, one of them scrambled up along his legs, tearing dozens upon dozens of tiny cuts along his shins, then his thighs. Then his gut.

  One of them had bitten his wrist.

  Another was gnawing on one of his biceps.

  A third dug a claw into his forehead and used it to begin peeling back the skin. Flaying him.

  Fresh pains washed over him in waves of torment .

  The words stopped and a fresh bite burned into his neck. His blood seeped out, leaving him cold.

  Everything went hazy, faded into nigh total blackness for a heartbeat. His last heartbeat. His lungs exploded and the pressure was gone. His vision snapped back, revealing the hideous creatures gorging themselves upon his flesh. And he could move.

  Starkad bucked, trying to dislodge the abominations. He managed only to topple from the slab and land in a great heap along with three of these things. They clawed and bit and tore at him.

  Arete’s words once more rang out, a cacophony in this shadowy world, demanding and unrelenting, even if Starkad could not understand them. He roared, twisted around, and managed to pin one of the things underneath him. He slammed a fist into its skull.

  Then he jerked his elbow back into the maw of another. That sent it toppling over backward, leaving just the one gnawing on his thigh. With a great cry, he slammed his palms together on both sides of its temples.

  As expected, the creature collapsed, clutching its head and rolling over onto its back.

  Starkad tried to stand, but his legs gave out. His heart wasn’t beating, but still, something coursed through his veins. Warm. Powerful.

  His hands were shaking.

  Arete was still beside the altar, now a mere shadow, a trick of the light, her movements slow, as if through quicksand. As Starkad watched, though, her form flickered. It seemed to split in half, a ghostly apparition ripping itself partway out of her. Her double was etheric and yet more clearly real and distinct than her other form had been.

  And it was looking at him, reaching a hand out toward him. “The blood of Kvasir holds you bound. Come back to us …”

  Her words bent, distorted as if underwater. His head felt full of wool, thick and wobbly.

  But she was there, hand waiting for him to take it.

  Starkad lunged forward and wrapped his hand around her wrist. Hers closed on his. Solid as aught.

  And she jerked him up, off the ground and toward her. She wrapped her arms around him, kissed him, blood dribbling over his lips. Her blood or his, he couldn’t say.

  An uncontrolled shudder built in his gut and spread out until his entire body was convulsing, held in place only by her arms.

  Blinding white light flashed in front of his eyes, then darkness.

  25

  B lessed daylight had already cracked through the sky when Hervor climbed the ladder, pushed aside the grate, and managed to crawl up into an alley. She surely reeked of shit and sweat and Odin knew what else. Hardly seemed to matter. Grunting with exhaustion, she crawled over to the side of a building and huddled down against it, squinting in the sunlight.

  Fuck … Starkad … he was dead. She murdered her lover. She pressed her palms into her eyes. Hel take Orvar-Oddr. He’d … finally done it. He’d destroyed everything she cared for. He’d fucking taken it all!

  She choked on the lump in her throat, struggled to swallow, then coughed. Breathing seemed nigh to impossible. Hel … Why hadn’t he just killed her? He should’ve killed her.

  Maybe he still would. If she just laid here, sooner or later he’d track her down. Would he come out into the light of day? Maybe. He’d done it before. Even without his Otherworldly powers, Orvar could still best her, especially in her current state and her having naught but a knife to defend herself with.

  Why had she done it? Why?

  Odin’s stones, maybe she ought to just wait here and let Orvar end her. She was so godsdamned tired of … everything. All of it was troll shit.

  And still, still she couldn’t sit here and wait to die.

  Teeth grit against the pain and fatigue and sheer brain-searing despondency, she forced herself up, stumbled out into the market, and then glared at the passersby who made faces at her stench. They could all rot behind the gates of Hel and she’d care naught.

  Why fight the inevitable end? She had naught left to live for, did she?

  She pushed her way through the crowd—most gave her a wide berth before she reached them anyway—heading in a random direction. She hardly much cared where she ended up, so long as it was away from the Arrow’s Point. And Tanna. And fucking Nikolaos.

  Everything was troll shit.

  But she just wasn’t the giving up type. She’d lived well enough before meeting Starkad Eightarms.

  Except she couldn’t quite remember what that felt like anymore. Couldn’t remember that life as more than a dream. And now she was in a nightmare. Orvar-Oddr had haunted her for so long. Finally got his vengeance. So maybe now he’d be looking to end her.

  Hervor stumbled into another alley, found some empty barrels, and collapsed down behind them. She needed to rest. To think. To figure out where to go from here. She just …

  The fucking draug had taken everything from her. The last thing, the least … she could do, would be to put him out of his godsdamned misery. That was it, then.

  She was going to kill the Arrow’s Point one more time.

  Or die trying.

  Either way, this had to end.

  The hand on her shoulder jolted Hervor awake and she reached for a knife. An iron grip caught her wrist and held it still. She thrashed a moment before she recognized Vebiorg, crouched over her. Behind the varulf, Win was standing, glancing this way and that down the alley.

  The sun had dipped low. How long had she slept? Her stomach growled as Vebiorg helped her up.

  “What do you want?” Hervor asked.

  The varulf shrugged. “We thought you’d want to know. The vampire bitch took Starkad. Mentioned … changing him.”

  “He’s alive?” That was … impossible. No human could survive Tyrfing’s poison. But Vebiorg seemed every bit in earnest.

  “Not for long.” Win said from the alley entrance. “If the vampire has her way, he’ll be one of them. Maybe already is, I don’t know. All I could do was get the sword and get out of there. If Vebiorg hadn’t found me, I’d probably still be wandering in the damned tunnels.”

  The sword … He had Tyrfing slung over his shoulder.

  Hervor glared at the hateful thing. Even looking at it made her heart long to hold it once more. Seeing it hanging over another’s shoulder was an icy spear through her gut. Reason enough to cut his bowels out. Or run far from here.

  What had her father said in his barrow, so long ago? She’d ignored his warnings about the sword’s curse. He’d said it would bring her woe, but she’d taken no heed. Probably
Angantyr could not have even imagined how true his warning would prove.

  She climbed to her feet. “Give me the runeblade. It is my family’s legacy.” Their curse.

  “Ah,” Win said. “Is it now? A legacy stolen from my father’s predecessor, entrusted by Gylfi to protect Holmgard.”

  “I’m not certain that sword protects aught. Either way, though, it is bound to me and I will have it. I’m going to kill Orvar-Oddr with it once more and put an end to this.”

  Win unshouldered the blade, holding it by the sheath. “And if I refuse? Suppose I decide to carry this back to my kingdom and return it to the task it was meant for?”

  Hervor shook her head and snickered. “Meant for? It was crafted by the dvergar as a means to earn favor with the Old Kingdoms while subverting them at the same time. The runeblades are cursed, Win, all of them. Trust me when I say you do not want it.”

  The prince looked at the sheathed sword. “I am not certain you deserve any measure of trust, shieldmaiden. But our mission here remains unchanged and Vebiorg convinced me that, whatever crimes lay in your past, with Eightarms taken, you may prove our best chance at victory.”

  Victory against Tanna seemed a fool’s dream at this point. She’d settle for avenging herself on Orvar-Oddr. If she lived through that, maybe she’d just leave Miklagard. Her oaths to Starkad were already broken. Next to that, her oaths to Rollaugr meant very little. She reached out a hand for the blade, and Win finally handed it over.

  “What of Starkad?” Vebiorg asked.

  Funny, it always came back to that question for Hervor. For Starkad she’d gone to Glaesisvellir. For Starkad, she’d chanced the wastes of Pohjola. And for Starkad she had come here, thinking to find human foes, and instead encountering monsters more terrible than aught she had ever faced.

  Her oath was broken … but still it bound her. “I cannot abandon him while there is yet breath left in his body.”