Days of Endless Night (Runeblade Saga Book 1) by Matt Larkin

Author:Matt Larkin [Larkin, Matt]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Incandescent Phoenix Books
Published: 2017-10-07T06:00:00+00:00

28

The crashing of water heralded their approach to the great gorge long before it came into sight. They came upon it from a frozen plateau, her crampons digging into the icy shelf as the sound drew nigh.

Across the gorge, steep, icy cliffs dropped down to a series of shelves, each pouring more and more waters into a gorge that split the island in half, running farther than Hervor could see in the mist. Vapors wafted out of that gorge like the forging of the world between fire and ice at the beginning of time. Maybe it was here, where the world began, caught between Niflheim and Muspelheim.

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.

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