Days of Broken Oaths Page 7

  “I cannot recall being sought out by one of your corrupted kind before,” Tanna said.

  Orvar shrugged off the vampire escort, who released him. “Am I so much more corrupt than the aristocracy of Miklagard?”

  Tanna quirked a slight smile, exposing a hint of fang. “I was speaking more of your putrefying flesh than the subtle, labyrinthine politics of the empire. Admittedly, millennia of internecine struggles have created a game that would appear hopelessly impenetrable to an outsider. I cannot say that the bemusement of foreigners much concerns us, though.”

  Orvar struggled to untangle the vampire’s words which rather strained his mastery of the language. “I did not come here to exchange witticisms,” he finally said in Northern.

  Tanna frowned now, as if the sound of the words was distasteful to him. “No. Your kind are like wraiths,” he answered in Northern. “Driven by single-minded obsessions. No revenant could have built or even envisaged a society such as we have created here.”

  No doubt true. It became hard to think on aught else while that drum continued beating.

  Vengeance. Vengeance. Vengeance.

  “Perhaps not. But strange circumstances may have aligned our interests.”

  Tanna cocked his head to the side but said naught.

  “The foe I seek not only came to your city, but broke into your tower. Her mission to kill you may have been ill-advised. But given that she did try, perhaps you too might be motivated … by a desire for revenge.”

  “Why would I need your help? I have a small army of vampires hunting them even now. The blood of one of the intruders already helped me find their lair. They run low on places to hide.”

  Orvar frowned. He hadn’t known these vampires could do that. “Like you, she bears a runeblade.”

  That got Tanna leaning forward.

  “I know her. I know of her companions. Working together, we can hunt them and kill them, with less risk to yourself or your … progeny.”

  Tanna’s mirthless smile had returned. “Very well, revenant. Prove your worth and I will forestall my distaste for your kind. Tell me about these foreign interlopers. Tell me everything.”

  11

  S tarkad led their crew down the dry tunnel. They’d passed a few more grates that led back to the upper city, but until daylight broke, it seemed safer down here. Much as Hervor misliked these foul tunnels, at least naught was trying to drink her blood here.

  Along the walls, more of those pictures—Baruch called them mosaics—decorated the tunnels.

  Many sections of them were cracked or even turned to dust entirely, exposing crumbling wall beneath them. Other parts were so faded or filthy she couldn’t guess at what they depicted.

  Starkad had told her he suspected these tunnels represented some sort of history of the vampire bloodlines. From what he could make of them, there might once have been twelve bloodlines. Perhaps one for each of the Patriarchs? That would make sense. The emperor must’ve appointed the highest ranking member of each line as a lord of the empire.

  Hervor had begun studying the mosaics herself at that. They depicted plenty of men and women who might’ve been vampires, but none she'd clearly call the emperor. As to who or what that emperor himself was—assuming he existed—Hervor had no idea.

  No clear indication in any mosaic. “Suppose he’s a lie?” she asked Starkad, when he paused beside her to inspect another picture. “Suppose the Patriarchs tell the people they report to someone, some shadowy figure. Just to keep them united, keep them in line?”

  “Could be. Doesn’t matter overmuch though. This only reinforces that we need to kill Tanna.”

  Obsessed with his mission? Right now, all Hervor wanted was to make it out of this city alive. She’d already filled her pouches with coin stolen from Tanna. She’d just as soon keep that and her life both. “I don’t get you.”

  “These vampires’ bloodlines have some kind of rough truce between them.”

  “And?”

  “If the Patriarch of one bloodline died, it would throw the others into chaos, scrambling to fill the void. While they fight each other, they’re not bothering with Holmgard.”

  Maybe. Hervor moved on, not eager to spend too long in one place. “You’re assuming the others wouldn’t band together to avenge Tanna.”

  “I don’t get the impression they much love each other.”

  Hervor grunted. “Doesn’t mean they’ll be pleased to find foreign humans coming in and murdering one of their number.”

  Starkad faltered, glanced at her. “You might be right. We can hope otherwise, though.”

  He didn’t get it. “How can you hope for aught after all we’ve seen? The world of men is fucking doomed, Starkad.” She glanced up at the others to make sure they were out of earshot. “It’s going to be trampled under by jotunnar. Or overrun by draugar. Or consumed in fire from the likes of Scyld and the Serklanders. Or devoured by the godsdamned svartalfar waiting beyond the Veil. And you didn’t even see the horrors in Pohjola.” She shook her head, finding a tremble welling up in her chest. Saying it all aloud … she’d been thinking Midgard would fall for a while. But she hadn’t really talked it over with him. “Maybe Odin can save us, maybe not. But naught we do is going to stop the end.”

  “You have no idea what Odin really is.”

  “Right, well, maybe don’t let Win hear you talk that way. Either way, we have to focus on what we can get out of life while some little bit of it is left to us.”

  A low growl echoed from the tunnel up ahead, where the others had treaded.

  Hervor exchanged a look with Starkad, then they both charged forward.

  Three—no, four—of those vampires had surrounded the rest of the group. One had Vebiorg pinned against the wall, the two of them wrestling and snarling, both growling.

  Höfund was circling another, big axe hefted up.

  A third had Win by the back of the neck while Baruch faced off with it, clearly not daring to draw nigh.

  The last was stalking around Afrid as she spun, trying to keep up with its erratic, shadowy movements.

  Hervor jerked Tyrfing free of its sheath and charged at that last one, trusting Starkad to help Win. She didn’t utter a sound, but the vampire turned at her sloshing footfalls, bared its fangs, and brought up its own short-bladed sword.

  Snarling now, Hervor lunged, chopped. Hit naught but air as the vampire twisted away, nimble as a damn bee. It darted around her like it was really made of dust blowing on the wind, so fast she could barely keep him in view. Her foot caught on her own ankle trying to turn about so quickly .

  Afrid lunged forward with a knife—she’d lost her spear on those rooftops. The vampire spun around, sidestepped, and cuffed her on the cheek. The blow actually hefted the shieldmaiden off her feet and sent her spinning around in the air before crashing down into the muck, sending a wave of it splashing over Hervor.

  Hervor shrieked, cleaving with Tyrfing into the vampire. It twisted away again, but not quite fast enough, as the blade bit into its ribs. Could it poison that which did not live?

  The creature howled in rage, hand to its side. Without warning it launched itself at her, sword whistling through the air.

  Hervor jerked Tyrfing up to parry. The impact jolted her arms and drove her backward. Odin’s stones, this thing was strong. It came around again, blade darting in toward her gut. She leapt aside, knocking the blade wide, though it still scraped against her mail.

  Reversing that parry, Hervor swung up at the vampire’s face. It bent backward with superhuman speed and she only caught the tip of its chin. Driving it into further frenzy.

  One of the other vampires was shouting in Miklagardian. Somewhere close behind her. She didn’t dare look, though. Take her eyes off this one for an instant and it was like to rend her apart.

  It flew into attack after attack, seeming as fast as Starkad. Faster, maybe. Her arms were numb from parrying it. Sweat streamed down her neck. No way she could beat this thing. Maybe Starkad co
uld. Maybe Höfund could match its strength. But a human like her … All she could do was hold out and hope one of the others could get to her.

  The vampire’s blade gouged her thigh and sent Hervor stumbling backward, her leg threatening to give out underneath her. Falling in this muck with an open cut was like to lead to infection and slow, rotting death. Assuming the vampire didn’t give her a fast, messy end first.

  Something grabbed the back of her neck. And then she was sailing through the air, twisting round. Everything spinning. Chaos and whooshing air.

  A smack against hard stone.

  A fall. A splash.

  Darkness.

  12

  Three Moons Ago

  O ut over the river, the funeral ship blazed, carrying away Gylfi’s corpse. Arms folded across her chest, Hervor watched the ship growing smaller and smaller. The sorcerer king had ruled Dalar for longer than she’d been alive. Much longer, in fact, if tales spoke true. He’d been the first to bring the North Realms word of the new gods.

  Odin himself had come to Gylfi and told him of the rise of the Aesir and the fall of the Vanir. Hard to imagine, really. The Aesir had been her gods all her life. Odin this all-knowing, withered old man. Except Starkad claimed to have met him, too … Either way, in her mind, when she tried to imagine the god, she saw someone much like Gylfi himself.

  The sorcerer had saved her life with his Art. On the other hand, in doing so he’d subjected her to torments of the Otherworlds. Gotten her raped and tortured, even if it might have all been in her head. Naught good came from the Otherworlds, and for a man to dabble in the Art invited horrors .

  It made it hard to grieve his passing. Besides, how did you let go of a figure like that, a man who’d been there forever? Holding Sviarland together, keeping the Seven Kings from destroying each other. Or maybe keeping any one of them from conquering all the land. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t wrap her mind around him being gone.

  And Starkad, he just stood on the riverbank, staring at the ship. Had hardly said a word in days. He’d had his own strange relationship to Gylfi and—like his connection to Odin—seemed loathe to explain in the least.

  Maybe he stood only a few feet ahead of her. Felt like miles, though. Like she could never quite grasp him. Not now.

  The new king, Svarflami—Gylfi’s grandson—he led the crowd back into the hall. Starkad broke away and followed the king, brushed right past Hervor without a godsdamned word. Not even a nod.

  Fuck him, then. If he wanted to wallow alone in his thoughts, she’d give him that. Let him do as he would. Instead of following the throng, Hervor stayed on the riverbank until the crowd had largely broken away.

  She’d always stayed well clear of Svarflami in any event. He was the son of Gylfi’s daughter Heithr and of Sigrlami, who Hervor’s own grandfather had killed in Holmgard. Arngrim had taken Sigrlami’s daughter, Eyfura, and Tyrfing too. Not that Svarflami could’ve known her kin had slain his father, but it felt foul mingling with him, knowing what Hervor knew.

  And could Svarflami be the king his grandfather had been? Seemed nigh to impossible, really. So what would become of Sviarland now? Maybe Hrethel would claim it all. She’d caught sight of a few other kings here, Aun, even, but none she knew had the might or stones to stand up to Hrethel.

  And Hrethel … well, he deserved Hervor’s wrath for what had befallen her other grandfather. Finding him like that, she’d been ready to swear a fresh oath of vengeance, save that Starkad had talked her down from it. That chafed worse than wearing mail with no padding, but … But maybe she didn’t have it left in her to uphold another oath of vengeance. She’d spent years working against the Ynglings, got many of them killed.

  And what did it bring her?

  Orvar-Oddr, stalking her with each passing moment. And she couldn’t fucking stop him. Maybe Starkad could have, but Hervor couldn’t let him ever find out she’d murdered his friend. One way or another, she’d have to find a way to kill the draug. She needed him burned to ash.

  Sighing, she kicked up a pile of snow. Her world was well and truly fucked. Maybe … maybe she needed help from someone else. Mercenaries, maybe. Aun owned them a hefty price in gold already.

  And he’d gone inside, no doubt eager to affirm friendships with the other kings.

  Shaking her head, Hervor trudged on after the others. Inside, Svarflami’s hall was so thick with people she could hardly move without getting jostled about. That, and dozens of braziers billowing smoke up into the rafters. Everyone was milling about, trying to grab the drinking horn or find a seat on overcrowded benches. Trying to get a piece of the largest feast she’d ever seen.

  A bunch of them had clustered around some brawl. Mix enough mead and enough people together, you’ll get some scuffles. Slightly curious, she shouldered her way through the crowd. Only it was Starkad brawling. A big, red-haired man had him by his tunic, atop a table. The man flung Starkad along the length of the surface, spilling over platters and plates. Starkad slid right off the edge and hit the floor.

  Hervor gaped. Odin’s stones! She’d never seen another man beat Starkad. Was he still weakened from his ordeal?

  She tried to shove her way through, but the crowd was too damn thick. A warrior and a shieldmaiden grabbed Starkad and hefted him up. He shook them off as the red-haired man approached. Starkad’s hands edged toward his blades.

  Shit.

  Brawling was one thing. Turning this into a duel, that would serve no one. Hervor shoved forward, caught Starkad’s eye and glowered.

  He lowered his hands, glaring at the other man. “I came here to pay respects to a fallen king. Not to squabble with you, Odinson.”

  Odinson? Odin’s … Fuck. That was Thor? As in Thor ?

  Thor shrugged. “Should you reconsider … I would relish a duel between us.”

  She knew her mouth hung open but she couldn’t have shut it to stop a bird from flying in. Instead, she pushed forward, trying to get a better look at the Ás. Odin’s actual son. Walking around and drinking and fighting.

  Pummeling her lover.

  Starkad grabbed her arm and yanked her away. She’d been reaching out to try to touch the god’s arm, she realized. “Stay the fuck away from him.”

  “That was Thor …”

  Starkad scoffed. “Not you too. The man acts like a troll’s arse and has the brains to match. ”

  She flinched, looked around. If someone heard Starkad so disparage one of the Aesir, who knew what could happen? Worse than a brawl, she’d guess. “You have some quarrel with the Ás?”

  He glowered, silent as usual, and pulled her along after him to the back of the hall. “Höfund is here,” he finally said. “He was looking for you.”

  Hervor stumbled over her own feet. The noise of the crowd drowned out the sound of her groan. Barely. Höfund, who’d just asked Grandfather for Hervor’s hand in marriage. Wonder how Starkad would react to that.

  Bastard might even encourage it.

  She couldn’t rightly refuse to meet him, though. Not after all they’d been through together. Without him, maybe she’d never have been able to save Starkad from the mara. She’d sure never have made it out of Pohjola.

  So she said naught as Starkad guided her to a bench where the half-jotunn sat. The man had a mouthful of some meat, grease dribbling down his face and sticking in his beard. He looked up as she approached, toothy grin just letting bits of food stick out. “Hervor!” Didn’t even bother finishing chewing.

  She blew out a breath, then clasped his forearm. “Höfund. Uh … there’s got to be a drinking horn around here.” She glanced about, then motioned to a shieldmaiden holding it. The woman handed it over and Hervor took a long swig of the mead.

  Höfund was loyal. A friend. Wouldn’t do to insult him, even if she couldn’t agree to wed him. He’d always helped her and … Oh. Oh, Odin’s glorious stones. Höfund was almost as strong as a draug. Maybe he’d be just the one she needed to help her hunt down and kill Orvar-Oddr without
Starkad ever catching wind of it .

  She handed the horn to Starkad, who himself drank long. “I thought you were in Holmgard?” she asked Höfund.

  “Was. But I’d already come round here looking for you. Caught word of this gathering and figured as you’d be here. You ain’t the easiest person to find, most times, what with the wandering around and so forth.”

  Damn it. He’d come to press his request for her hand, hadn’t he? Last thing she needed was him raising it in front of Starkad. That’d be almost as troubling as having to discuss it alone with him.

  “Got tired of Bjarmaland?” Starkad asked.

  “Can’t say as I have. Fact is, I’ve taken up working for the local king there. This Rollaugr, he’s called. Got more than his fair share of troubles, he does.”

  Huh. Well, that was … not what she’d expected. “If you’re working for the king, why are you here?”

  “Holmgard is looking to fall soon, I reckon. King’s getting fair desperate, and I told him I’d help as best I could. But he’s heard of Eightarms here, and he wants him. Was planning to send a man across the Gandvik to come and look for you. So I told him I knew the both of you and I’d come myself.”

  Starkad passed the horn on and rubbed the back of his hand on his mouth. “What’s he want with me?”

  “Reckon the same as any king wants with a mercenary. Best you let him do the telling of it, though. I’m only here ’cause I reckoned you’d be more like to help if it was me asking than some stranger.”

  Probably true. And either way, if they helped Höfund with this, maybe she’d get the chance to recruit him to help deal with the Arrow’s Point. “Seems like we have to go,” she said .

  Starkad glanced at her. “I didn’t expect you to agree so readily.”

  She shrugged. “We owe him.” Which was true. “And I know you.” Even more true. “You’d have gone regardless.”

  And there Höfund was, grinning again.