Days of Endless Night (Runeblade Saga Book 1) Page 9

  At the top, she rolled over. They were standing atop one of the lower mountains. Across a valley pitched an enormously tall waterfall. Though thin, it fell so far and with such force, it had not frozen over, at least not this early in winter. The water pitched into a lake far below them.

  She rose to her knees and stared at it, breathless, and not just from the climb. Never had she seen a sight like this. The land stretched out beyond the waterfall in an endless plateau, shrouded by mist, as was the valley. But it was deep, wide, and within it, beyond the rocks, grew a small wood.

  “It’ll be dark very soon,” Orvar-Oddr said.

  Starkad nodded. “We cannot stay here. The valley beneath the fall will offer shelter and fresh firewood.”

  “So.” Bragi cleared his throat. “What you mean to say is, you want us to now climb back down. In the dark. Into the mist. And the dark.”

  Starkad offered no answer, save to start walking in that direction.

  Hervor stifled a groan. Killed a jotunn had he? Well, that was fucking amazing. And now he was king of Midgard. And telling her to march on, to climb on, never mind the holes in her back.

  The worst of it was, he was right. There was no shelter up on the mountain, not from the howling wind, not from the icy chill it brought. And not from any foes who might be hunting them come sunset.

  Bragi suddenly grabbed her and pulled her to her feet. “We have to get a fire going before full dark sets in. And that means we’d best do as he says. Can you walk?”

  Hervor sneered. “Just don’t fall on me again, old man.”

  “Eh. Well, I’ll just go first this time.” And he did.

  18

  TWO YEARS AGO

  Jarl Bjalmar had no vӧlva of his own, and so a simple healer, a woman from the town, treated the slave Hervor had beaten. For three days, the man had lain abed, and the healer could not say whether he would live or die. Hervor had peeked in on him twice, each time greeted by the disdainful stares of the healer and the other slaves who had come to visit their friend.

  Three moons she had spent among Red-Eye’s Boys, and with them she had killed many men. Not like this, though. Not someone she had seen every day, even if she did not know his name. She had not intended to cripple him. She didn’t know what she’d intended. His words had enraged her beyond all withstanding. And she was within her rights to kill a slave for speaking to her thus—for any reason at all, she supposed, though it would mean she’d owe her grandfather the man’s worth in silver.

  But it wasn’t what she’d meant to do.

  What she’d intended mattered little, in the end. Not after the man died from the injuries she inflicted.

  She’d paced the jarl’s hall since then, never able to settle her mind nor her stomach. To think her mother would lie with such men left her nauseated. She needed a sword in her hand and a foe before her to kill. Someone to punish. For the lie. It had to be a lie.

  But then, she had not been able to confront her mother about it, and the slave would never talk of it—or aught else—again. And so Hervor found herself waiting outside her mother’s door once again, unable to knock, unable to ask a question she so dreaded the answer to. Men did that kind of thing—fucked slaves to sate their lust. But women, especially noblewomen, were meant to have self-control.

  Did this so matter?

  She’d lied to her mother, too, when she’d tried to claim Red-Eye hadn’t fucked her. Of course he had, though he certainly had not shared her with the Boys as she’d said to her grandfather. The old man was just too tempting to humble, to shame. Like how she now felt shamed to know of her true parentage. A child born to a slave belonged to the mother’s owner. So what if the mother was a noble?

  Well then, at least her mother would have no more right to judge Hervor’s excesses. She was about to knock when the door opened. Her mother jerked back to see her standing there, then stared at her a long time.

  “What do you wish now?”

  “To speak with you.”

  “I’ll hear no more lies.”

  Hervor folded her arms over her chest. “I just want the truth.”

  At that her mother pursed her lips, then sighed, and motioned for Hervor to come in. She had rarely visited her mother’s room. It was well decorated with tapestries, some of which she had probably woven herself on the loom in the corner. A small brazier kept the room warm and well lit.

  Her mother sat in a chair beside that brazier and beckoned Hervor join her in the other chair. “I had given up inviting you in here.”

  Hervor tried not to sneer. Her mother meant to say she had given up on Hervor completely. “Who is my father?”

  With a sigh, her mother shook her head. “I thought we were past this. I do not wish to speak of—”

  “I’m sure you don’t. The slaves told me, though.”

  “They what?” Very real concern marked her face.

  “So it’s true. You forbade them speak of it. You lay with so many men you don’t even know who my father is.”

  “W-what?” Her mother stood so swiftly her chair toppled over. “Who speaks such lies. Who!”

  “A deadman, as of this afternoon.”

  Her mother groaned, then began to pace the room.

  “So now I know.” And neither her mother nor grandfather had any right to complain about any of her actions.

  “You know naught, spiteful child!”

  Hervor froze, looked to where her mother stood by a shuttered window.

  “Your father was a jarl’s son, Hervor. And we were properly wed, though yes, he died before you were born. Angantyr, son of Jarl Arngrim, who gave him a perilous sword to wield in a duel.”

  Now it was Hervor’s turn to stammer, unable to quite wrap her mind around what she was hearing. “My father was a hero?”

  Her mother wrung her hands, then looked back to the window again. “He was famous, yes. The most famous of his band. Twelve brothers, all berserkir. It was said they took no one else into battle with them, so mighty were they. Angantyr was the eldest, the most famed and most powerful. He had eyes like furnaces and arms thick as a real bear’s. And he …

  “There’s another kingdom here in Sviarland, to the north. Back then, King Yngvi had a daughter famed for her beauty. And Angantyr’s brother, the next after him—Hjorvard—he swore to marry her. But he was challenged for her hand by a housecarl, if you can believe that. A mere servant to the king thought to marry the beautiful princess.”

  That took some temerity. Hervor drifted to her mother’s side and put a hand on her shoulder. “And what happened?”

  “They arranged a duel, on the island of Samsey, in the Morimarusa. And before they went to the duel, the brothers wanted to seek their father’s blessing. They passed through here and father gave them all shelter, feasted them for a few nights and they … Angantyr and I met. Angantyr told me he thought me fairer even than Princess Ingibjorg, and he asked my father for my hand. Father agreed and we were wed, feasted. It lasted only one night since they were in a hurry to reach Samsey.”

  “I was conceived the night of the wedding feast?” Hervor could barely hear her own voice over the crackle of the fire. “And the duel?”

  “I was not there.”

  “But you know what happened. Tell me.” Part of her did not want to know. There was only one possibility after all. Clearly, her father had not returned.

  “The housecarl took with him a crew and a champion, Arrow’s Point, skalds call him. No one knows exactly what happened on Samsey. But Arrow’s Point was the only one to leave that island.”

  Hervor’s hand on her mother’s shoulder tightened. “My uncles?”

  “He killed them all. Your father, his eleven brothers. All lay, unblessed by any prayers, perhaps never even burned on the pyre. All I can say is now Samsey is called a haunted place, and no one will go there.”

  No. This Arrow’s Point had destroyed not only her father but all his kin. Her kin. “I will go.”

  “Do not be a fool.
”

  “A fool! Did Arrow’s Point come here and pay us weregild for our losses? Did he pay Jarl Arngrim for the death of his sons?”

  “One does not pay weregild for an agreed-upon duel, Hervor.”

  “A duel ends with a man dead. When it ends with twelve men dead, I call that something fouler! They were murdered, probably set upon unawares and killed. And you tell me he may have left them to rot?”

  Her mother shook her by the shoulders then. “Listen to me, child—”

  Hervor batted her mother’s arms off. “No! No, I will have vengeance for my father. This I swear. I will avenge him and my uncles both, and I will do it with father’s own sword.” She stormed off toward the door.

  “You are but a girl!”

  Hervor froze. “I am my father’s only heir. And I will not break this oath. No matter how long it takes, I will avenge him.”

  19

  Daylight had faded, giving way to those strange lights in the sky once again. And the mist. Always the damned mist. One more reason to hate the night. Still they climbed down, torches in hand. The slope had grown level enough to allow that much, at least. Far ahead, the crash of water echoed through the valley, almost allowing Hervor to forget what a horrible place this truly was. Almost but not quite. An island without proper day, where beasts fed upon men in the night. Truly, it seemed a landscape dreamed up by Hel.

  “You seem very deep in thought,” Bragi said. The old skald walked beside her as they brought up the rear of the party.

  If she was quiet, perhaps it was because blood continued to seep out of her wounds, freezing against her mail. The wounds were not as deep as they might have been, but still, she would probably have to stitch them. Already weakness had begun to slow her steps. And you never let men see weakness, especially not men who might be enemies.

  Better then to keep him distracted. And skalds love to talk. “Where do you hail from, Bluefoot?”

  “Originally? From Njarar. When I was born, Old King Nidud reigned over the kingdom.”

  “I know that name.” She couldn’t quite place it, but she had heard of Nidud.

  “I should think so. His tale has become quite famed—or infamous, perhaps, much as the king himself. I was just a boy, mind, so I didn’t hear the tale until years later. You see we lived in a small town below the mountain where Nidud reigned. The old king was fabulously wealthy since his ancestors had stolen a dverg hoard.”

  Hervor chuckled. “You expect me to believe a man stole from dvergar and got away with it?”

  Bragi put his hand over his heart as if offended. “Would a skald lie?”

  “Only while breathing.”

  Bragi shrugged in acknowledgment. “Never mind that. However much gold he had, it wasn’t enough for him. He spread war in Sviarland and in Aujum. The Aesir lived there in those days, before we knew they were gods. And Nidud wanted weapons to challenge them and their mighty warriors. So he abducted the most famed smith in the North Realms—Volund. Well, Volund didn’t want to work for cruel Nidud, so what did the king do? He hamstrung the smith so he could never leave the forge.”

  She had heard this tale. Of the cruel revenge of the dark smith. “And Volund repaid him by killing his sons,” she said. It was getting harder to speak. Her breath felt short, and her back seemed on fire.

  “Oh yes, that’s the short of it. More properly, you might say Volund ruined Nidud’s line. The king killed himself and left the throne to his last son, Otwin.”

  The rest of the group had gathered in the valley before the waterfall. The fall pitched down into a wall a dozen feet below the level where they stood. Down there, seals lay upon the banks, so the river must lead to the sea at some point. Had they known, maybe they could have sailed the ship up this far.

  Orvar-Oddr stood in the center of the party, pointing at the woods. “Everyone go in pairs, get firewood. Do not go far. We camp here and wait for better light.”

  Starkad took his Serklander friend, Orvar went with Ivar the Loud, and Tiny and the Axe went off chatting, leaving her with Bragi. Orvar had ordered them not to go alone. But then she did not care much for orders from him or anyone else.

  “Go on,” she told Bragi. “I’ll catch up.”

  “Orvar said—”

  “Orvar didn’t know a clumsy skald put a crampon spike through my back.”

  “Ah, you can’t well patch yourself up. Here, let me see it. I’m a fair hand with a needle, and I even know a thing or two about vӧlva poultices.”

  Hervor sneered. She wasn’t about to take off her armor, much less her shirt, in front of the old man. Might be a tad difficult to maintain her disguise at that. And she had gone to extraordinary lengths to conceal her gender while at sea, so she wasn’t going to let on now. “I can see to myself. Go get the damn wood.”

  Bragi shrugged and trotted off toward the trees, mumbling under his breath. Hervor plodded around the proposed campsite until she found a slope leading down to the water, one that put a number of large rocks between her and the rest of the group.

  There she slumped down with a groan. Chills wracked her. Blood loss? Or just the fact it was fucking freezing this far north? She set Tyrfing down. This would not be enjoyable. Gingerly, she tried to remove the chain. Blood had dried against the mail, making it stick. Worse, links of chain had wedged into her skin, even through her leather jerkin. The crampon had torn through metal, leather, and flesh like a weapon.

  Teeth grit against the pain, she peeled those links from her back. A grunt of pain escaped her as iron tore flesh. She slumped against the rock, panting as the last links broke free. She hated this place. She fucking hated this whole damned island. And the whole Yngling dynasty for forcing her to come here—as if she did not have enough reasons to gut them all.

  Still short of breath, she pulled the mail over her shoulders and tossed it aside. That would need some serious repair, too, and she was not like to find a smith here on Thule. Well, there was no help for that. She unlaced the jerkin then tossed it aside so she could pull up her tunic.

  Twisting around, she could see the bloody mess on her back and her flesh already looking sallow. There was no way she’d ever reach that to stitch it though. Damn Bragi. She stretched, reaching around, even knowing it was helpless.

  “Fuck,” she groaned. If she didn’t get this patched, she’d not see another day. “Frigg … I could much use your help here.”

  The goddess did not answer.

  She let her tunic drop back into place. Beneath that, she’d used linen strips to bind her breasts as close as she could. But without the jerkin and armor, someone would notice. More so if she had to remove the tunic. Bragi had made this mess of her back. Maybe the old man was the one who could help her now.

  She pushed herself up, then stumbled back along the path until she could spot men returning from the woods.

  “Bragi!” she spat when the old skald came wandering back with an armful of firewood.

  He looked around.

  “Bragi!”

  The man nodded in her direction now and trotted over after depositing the wood at the campsite. “Come to your senses, boy? I’ve seen a lot of fool things in my time. Never saw a man stitch up his own back before. Though I imagine it might have made a fine tale had you managed it.”

  Hel take the smug old man. Hervor spit in the snow. “You going to help or not?”

  “Yes. Of course I’m going to help you. Take off the tunic.”

  Hervor glared at him a moment. Then she turned around to face the river, sat, and pulled her tunic up over her head.

  “Huh.” Looking at the linens.

  “Another old injury,” she said.

  “Uh huh.” He sat down behind her.

  She glanced back, and he was heating his needle on his torch.

  “What the fuck?”

  Bragi chuckled. “A vӧlva once told me fire spirits help seal out infection from the mist.”

  After a moment, he pressed calloused hands against her back. T
hen he set to work.

  Hervor grit her teeth and tried not to complain.

  20

  Whatever vaettir dwelt on Thule, Starkad was going to be prepared for them this time. Much as he wanted to blame Hervard for Rolf’s death, the man might have made a real mistake. Either way, some dangerous beasts lurked here, and the best way to prepare for beasts and vaettir alike was with flame. Flame and spears.

  “I want small bonfires ringing the main one. There, there, over there by the rocks.”

  Tiny grumbled about how much wood it was going to take, but the Axe laughed.

  “Remember that battle against the men in Reidgotaland?” the old veteran asked.

  Starkad nodded. A pair of jarls had tried rising up against Healfdene, who’d hired Starkad, the Axe, and others to make an example of them.

  The Axe rubbed his beard. “We put those giant wooden spikes all around the camp thinking they might attack in the night. Had those big burning torch poles too.”

  Starkad snorted. “Cowards took one look at the defenses and refused to attack, started building their own fortifications.” It almost made him smile. “I remember. Not sure that’s like to happen tonight.”

  The Axe shrugged and waved in the general direction of the island. “I’d much rather be on the offense, but best to have the defenses in place.”

  Tiny dropped a massive armful of wood in front of the Axe. “Then you can make those defenses. I’d rather hunt our foes down.”

  The veteran chuckled. “And we did, despite the locals raving about it being dragon country.” He snorted. “Didn’t see any fucking dragons. Just men and blood and screaming.” He turned, as if examining the campsite. “This place, though. This place looks like it ought to house a dragon or two. A refuge for old, wily serpents. A place not meant for men at all.”

  Starkad had begun setting the woodpile, preparing the bonfire, but he looked up at the Axe’s words and slowly took in the woods, the icy slopes, untouched by man in countless long winters. He had seen a great many monstrosities in his day, but dragons were not among them.