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  Hervor gasped, trying to stifle her screams. Odin’s stones! What the fuck?

  The ghost watched her, saying naught. All the flames had gone out of him. Back into the sword. It was still there on the floor, glowing. Hot. It seemed the curse passed between realms and allowed it to harm the living and dead both. Finally, he shook his head. “Do not touch the edges. The wounds they inflict will fester like poison and never heal.”

  She crawled over to where the runeblade lay. Pattern welded from a coppery metal, with a hilt of the brightest gold. And along the blade ran ancient dvergar runes that made it a weapon unmatched in the world of men.

  “Nigh to twenty years you have lain here, burning in death,” she said. “From today … that suffering shall begin to rain on our enemies.” Hervor snatched up the hilt again. Fresh jolts of agony seared through her flesh and seemed to melt her bone. She screamed in pain but did not drop the sword. Instead, she rose to her feet and only tightened her grip. “Tyrfing is … mine.”

  The flames cooled. The sword stilled in her hand. Its blade shone with a white light that filled the tomb.

  She turned, but her father’s ghost had vanished.

  Blood seeped between Hervor’s fingers as she climbed from the barrow. The burns on her hand and forearm were all too real. Touching aught brought fresh agony. Bits of her skin had flaked off. Once free, she tumbled down the hill and lay there, beside her second torch. Had Odin seen what she had done? Faced down ghosts and withstood the burning of her own flesh to claim her family’s legacy.

  Yes, she should have the eyes of the gods on her now.

  With a knife, she cut away a strip of her tunic. She had no vӧlva’s salve to apply, so she wrapped the strip around her arm and palm, teeth grit against the pain. Wrapping it hurt too, but it was better than constantly brushing it against things.

  Tyrfing’s weight over her shoulder was a comfort, a reminder of what her pain had bought. The first step toward vengeance. A great many men had wronged her family, and not one silver of weregild had ever reached her. No, her father and uncles had waited too long already for vengeance. Maybe, once Arrow’s Point and his Yngling masters had fallen to her blade, maybe then her family’s spirits could reach Valhalla.

  And for that, she had to get off this damned island.

  She pushed herself up, took up the torch, and stumbled on through the mist. She had raised a crew with some effort, though she could trust them. She even had led them raiding all around the Morimarusa, into Reidgotaland, Sviarland, Hunaland. And still they had not wanted to come here. Samsey was haunted, they claimed. Some ancient power dwelt here, restless and best left alone.

  Men were given to such pointless superstitions.

  The shepherd was long gone as, sadly, was his sheep. She could have used something to eat.

  No matter, the crew would have something left of the night meal she could sate herself on. Blood seeped through her bandage. She forced herself to look elsewhere. Best to keep her eyes alert in any event, especially at night. That was more than superstition. Hervor did not much care for night, in fact. Daylight meant freedom, the ability to walk, run, raid. At night, men had to cower in front of flames not knowing what lurked in the darkness just beyond their sight. Naught tasted fouler than the impotence of that, of admitting to such weakness.

  And the mist was always thickest at night. Legends claimed the mists came from Niflheim, from the World of Mist, realm of Hel. It seemed some skald’s fancy to her.

  Either way, Hervor would happily send a great many men to the gates of Hel very soon.

  She passed out of the hills and down toward the shore. Thank Odin. Vengeance could wait a day or so. She needed a few mugs of mead, a hearty meal, and a long sleep. She paused a moment to check her helm and her mail. Most of the regular crew knew her for a woman. You couldn’t conceal these things forever. They addressed her as Hervard though, because on a raid, men seemed more likely to fear a male leader. Men were stupid like that. They had taken on some fresh bodies before coming here, however, and she saw no reason to let her secret slip needlessly.

  By the shore, her steps stalled. Where the fuck was the ship? She was certain they had anchored here, in front of the rock face. Hervor paced around, past the rock, waving the torch to dispel the mist. What was going on? Where would they … was that the light of a fire? Way out, over the sea and fading quickly. It was. A ship sailing away, vanishing into mist.

  Hervor stood there, mouth open, not quite able to form a sentence. Her crew. Her trollfucking crew! They had left her here. Odin’s stones! They must have seen the earthquake and … and panicked like some untested boys. Those craven bastards!

  “Get back here!” she shouted after them.

  No way her voice would carry.

  Samsey was haunted. That’s what they claimed. Just about everywhere people didn’t congregate and build large fires was haunted. But they had feared this place enough to leave their own captain behind. She worked her jaw. Her fingers twitched, eager to draw Tyrfing and spill their blood. It wanted to punish them. She knew it did.

  Any sign of that flame was gone. And her own torch was dwindling. Sure, she had a few more. Maybe enough to get through the night. But she had no supplies, no food. There were woods here. She could gather tinder for a fire. That would be a start.

  But without a bow, she couldn’t hunt.

  So how was she supposed to survive? Where would she get …? The shepherd. If there was a shepherd, there would be other people. Locals, somewhere. She just needed to find them. There had to be some way off this island.

  The rumbles of Hervor’s stomach had begun to grow louder even than the waves lapping on the shore. A numb heaviness had replaced the burning in her right hand. Even flexing her fingers felt like it was tearing off her skin.

  Following the shore meant she’d find fishermen sooner or later. Or so she’d thought. It was a damned large island, and already the daylight was waning. It did not help that she’d slept beneath an ash tree for Odin-knew how long. But then, she’d felt ready to collapse not long after sunrise.

  In daylight, the mist thinned, and you could almost allow yourself to breathe.

  All the walking had worn her new boots in. She’d taken them off a man she’d killed the past moon but only just bothered to try them on right before coming to Samsey. Luckily, they had strong soles. What with her walking the shore all fucking night and day. When she caught those craven, traitorous crewmen, she’d have each and every one of them flayed and cursed down to Niflheim. A skald once claimed that, in the depths of the World of Mist, a dragon gnawed upon the helpless corpses of murderers, rapists, and oath-breakers. Her crew had already managed to fall into the first two of those categories, and now they’d earned themselves the third. The worst of all crimes, many would say.

  The dark dragon would suck the marrow from their bones, and they would feel every instant of it. For the dead were dead already and could find no respite from their suffering.

  Hervor, however, was not going to break her oath. She had sworn vengeance on the House of Yngling and upon its champion Arrow’s Point.

  Her steps on the sand had become shuffling, graceless. A long time more she walked, trying not to think too much. Just keep moving. Do not consider that her throat had grown so dry it felt on fire. Do not think about drinking seawater. It would not help.

  There had been a shepherd. He had gone somewhere. Obviously, she had picked the wrong direction to walk. But if she turned around now she’d lose another day. There had to be someone living here, some way off this cursed island.

  As twilight neared, the peak of a longhouse came into view, praise Odin. Hervor increased her pace. The wind howled, as if welcoming in the fresh reinforcements of the mist. Had she inherited her father’s berserk nature she might have welcomed the night and rejoiced in the moonlight. She had not gotten it, however. As a mere human, the night was strange, alien to her. And if it did not embrace her, why should she not scorn it in return?
r />   She almost collided with the wall surrounding the house. It only rose up to her chest. Easy enough to vault were she not bone tired. She shook her head. These people were not here for her to plunder in any event. Their presence had like as not saved her life. She edged along the fence until she reached the gate. Out on the water, lay a dock. A small sailing boat, probably for fishing. Small but probably big enough to get to Sjaelland. From there, she could make her way back to Sviarland.

  Hervor glanced back to the house. She was starving. Smoke rose from the chimney. Fire meant people, warmth, and food. Dammit. Vengeance would wait, at least for an hour.

  She swung open the gate and ambled toward the house. Shuffling sounded inside. They had heard her. No one opened the door. She groaned. Obviously hospitality was not the highest virtue among these people. Perhaps they thought aught wandering alone during sunset was a vaettr or other force of ill.

  “I am human.” Her voice sounded harsh, cracked from too long with naught to drink. She rapped on the door. “I am a traveller in need. Open up, and let me in.”

  Whispers she could not catch sounded on the other side. Quickly stifled.

  Frightened fishermen too stupid to know ghosts and trolls would not ask for permission to enter. Hervor shouldered the door. It creaked on its hinges but held as though a solid mass bound it. Had they barricaded it? Hel damn the peasants anyway. She was too hungry, too thirsty, and too fucking tired for this. She drew Tyrfing. As it left its scabbard, it emanated light like a torch but whiter, more intense in radiance.

  “Open the door! I just want food and ale!”

  Holding the sword filled her with renewed strength, much as it hurt in her cracked and bleeding palm. Perhaps it was just the refreshing feel of a blade in hand once again. Such a thing was nigh to a part of her.

  Her heart was pounding, throbbing, beating through her like a drum. The whole world was beating with it.

  Thump thump.

  “Open the fucking door before I hack it down!”

  Thump thump.

  Her palm was sweating. The sun had already set. Grown chill. The mist was creeping in.

  Thump thump.

  She just wanted food. Well, and their damned boat. They were forcing her hand, after all.

  THUMP THUMP THUMP.

  She couldn’t hear aught over that pounding, ringing in her ears. Were they mocking her inside? Did they think those ash wood planks protected them? With a war cry she could barely hear over the pounding, she chopped at the door. The blade sliced through ash planks as though they had the strength of wool. Hervor hacked again and again, grunting with effort.

  Great chunks of the wood flew free.

  The pounding had stopped. A woman was screaming.

  Hervor fell still. Blood dripped off Tyrfing’s blade. Odin’s stones. Bastard had tried bracing the door with his own body, hadn’t he? She kicked what remained of the door. Boards cracked and it swung inward, partially obstructed by the eviscerated man on the floor.

  A woman had thrown her arms around two small children, shielding them with her body. She was shrieking in some language Hervor couldn’t make out. Perhaps Old Northern? Studies had never been much of her interest.

  Hervor shook her head at the mother. “I just wanted a damn meal.”

  The woman kept sputtering, but Hervor caught one word she recognized, repeated on several occasions: Hel. Whether the fisherman’s wife was damning Hervor to the icy goddess or actually beseeching her for aid, Hervor could not say.

  Either way, Hervor sheathed Tyrfing and stormed over to where the family had a steaming halibut sitting on a piece of wood near the fire. She snatched the plate up, grabbed a drinking horn filled with water—best thing under the circumstances—and stormed back to the threshold.

  Fuck.

  Hervor looked back at the family. She hadn’t intended to kill anyone. She was desperate and … and …

  She set down the fish and fumbled with a silver arm ring. What was the weregild for a fisherman anyway? Who knew? Instead of breaking off a piece of the silver, she tossed the whole arm ring at the woman. It was all she could do for them. Besides, she was still stealing their boat.

  She drained the drinking horn in several great gulps, then tossed it back into the house.

  The woman was staring daggers at her.

  Hervor shrugged. “Maybe I’ll meet Hel, maybe I’ll dine with Odin in Valhalla. The only difference this made is now it’ll take a bit longer first.”

  The widow gave no acknowledgement of understanding.

  Hervor shook her head and walked away. She hadn’t wanted to kill anyone here.

  She hadn’t.

  2

  The Kingdom of Upsal lay centered on the Fyrisvellir by the River Fyris above the marsh. It was one of seven petty kingdoms throughout Sviarland but a strong one, ruled by what had once been the strongest of dynasties. The Ynglings claimed descent from the Vanr, Frey, who wielded the flaming runeblade Laevateinn in countless battles against the jotunnar and other forces of chaos. Not that Starkad had ever seen Frey, nor was he like to now.

  No, Odin and his fellow Aesir had cast down all the Vanir and banished them beyond the edges of Midgard. What exactly that meant, Starkad could not say, nor did he truly care. Such things had naught to do with him anymore.

  Men called him a wanderer, and there was truth enough in that. He never stayed over long in one place. It didn’t sit well on him, trying, like something began to eat away at his heart. Besides, a man did not grow rich by resting on past accomplishments.

  Starkad had spent long years in service to the Yngling Dynasty, off and on. His path carried him far afield, beyond even the North Realms. He had seen things these petty kings could not imagine. And now they called him back. Word had spread through Sviarland that they sought his aid once again.

  They knew it did not come cheaply.

  Starkad made his way over the marshy plain, Afzal trailing a few steps. Countless treks here had taught him the safest way to pass. These wolds were haunted by the ghosts of innumerable warriors who had lost themselves in the mist, sunken into the peat. They watched him now, the dead. They did not show themselves, but a man could feel it as they neared, the chill in the air, the hair on his arms standing on end. The dead hated the living, envied them for the life so cruelly snatched from their grasp. Starkad had many enemies among the dead, many he had sent screaming into the next world. Those ghosts would lead him astray if he let them.

  Afzal was pointing at a ghost light over the bog.

  Starkad grabbed the Serklander with a hand on each cheek and spun him around, forcing the man to look into his eyes. “Do not look at the lights. They will be the last thing you see with living eyes.”

  Will-o’-the-wisps, mere trickery of the dead, but those lights had drawn many a man to his death. So like life-preserving flame a man naturally looked at them, stared deeply, and so became intoxicated with the luminous flames. A man would follow them right off into a pit of peat and drown, still trying to clutch flames he could never hold. Starkad had seen it happen. It was not the worst death he had ever seen, but neither is there much honor in choking on muck.

  Afzal blinked, then nodded. “How many times over should I owe my life to you?”

  Starkad released him, then spit into the bog. “You are free to leave any time you wish. I have not asked for your service.”

  “You have it, nonetheless.”

  Starkad smiled, just a little. Careful not to look too closely at the wisps himself, he pushed onward. The Serklander had not left his side in … was it nine winters now? Not since Starkad had saved him when the foreigner was but a boy. It was good to have someone to talk to, anyway.

  The Yngling hall lay by the river. Though built by modern men, it had stone foundations dating back at least to the time of the Old Kingdoms. Maybe even before. Maybe Frey himself had truly helped build the place, as the Ynglings claimed.

  A stone wall protected each house in the town, the great hall inc
luded. Those gates were thrown wide, though with evening drawing nigh, they would no doubt soon shut. Now though, the Ynglings welcomed warriors from far abroad into their hall. Shouting and raucous laughter rang from inside. Starkad nodded at the guards at the door.

  “Who the fuck needs two swords?” one whispered to the other as he passed.

  Starkad stiffened. This oaf did not even know who he was. Did not know why he wore a sword on either shoulder. His fingers twitched idly.

  “Not worth it,” Afzal whispered in his ear.

  “Dolt,” the other guard said. “That’s Starkad Eightarms.”

  The first guard uttered a satisfying hiss of surprise and perhaps self-admonishment. Enough so that Starkad need not personally introduce himself. He continued on instead.

  He waded among the throng, accepting the drinking horn as it was passed to him. He took a long swig of it. The Ynglings still had the best mead; he’d give them that. He handed it off to some shieldmaiden without looking at her. She was not worth his time.

  Women never were.

  She tried to talk to him, but he ignored her and pushed onward.

  “Orvar!”

  Orvar was a tall man, well muscled though at an age most men never reached. Not that Starkad was one to talk. Still, Orvar showed his age more than Starkad. Most men would have thought Starkad not much more than twenty winters, despite his thick beard and scraggly hair. In truth, he was less than a decade shy of Orvar, who had to be pushing fifty winters now.

  They had fought together many times, most often on the same side, though Starkad had once crossed swords with the man at the other’s behest. It had been a short contest, though Orvar remained among the finest Starkad had ever faced. Still, the fastest man was the only one who mattered.

  And Starkad was very, very fast with a blade.