Twilight of the Gods

by Scott Oden

  “You know the last stanza, son of Bálegyr,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “How does it run?”

  “Faugh!” Grimnir snarled and turned away. But then, in a voice as tuneless as a broken chanter pipe, he added:

  “Wolf shall fight she-Wolf | in Raven’s shadow;

  An axe age, a sword age, | as Day gives way to Night.

  And Ymir’s sons dance | as the Gjallarhorn

  Kindles the doom | of the Nailed God’s folk.”

  Halla nodded. “You stay,” she said quietly, “because you know the prophecy is true.”

  “True? Aye, I know there’s a bit of truth to it, hag,” Grimnir replied. “But I also know there’s a damn sight more to it than what’s in that wretched scrap of doggerel! You think I chose to live among these swine, to play protector to a village of half-wits, because some skald cobbled together a prophecy from a tale he half-heard? Ha! You’re a daft old bat!” Grimnir stabbed a finger at the open door. “Now, cease your prattle. I have a little bird to hunt.”

  “Let her be,” Halla said. “She is Dagaz, you fool. She is the Day who gives way to Night—”

  “Fool, is it?” Grimnir rounded on her. “Let me tell you something that maybe even those worm-riddled curds inside your skull can grasp. Your precious prophecy? It might be true, but that doesn’t mean it will ripen and bear fruit! There are other things at work here, besides a bit of old verse.”

  “Like what?”

  An ancient hate gleamed in Grimnir’s eye. “Like oaths,” he hissed. “Oaths sworn in blood and on bone. Sworn in the name of the Sly One, Father Loki, and of frost-bearded Ymir, sire of giants. Oaths of vengeance, woven long before some dunghill swine muttered about years tallying nine times nine times nine again. Grim days are coming, witch. And with them come justice and a reckoning … justice for Raðbolg, my kinsman, and for Skríkja, who gave me life. And a reckoning for that slippery eel you’re pinning your hopes on, that so-called Malice-Striker!”

  Halla’s face turned to a mask of rage. “You would betray your own kind? Side with the vermin of the Nailed God?”

  “My kind? So-ho! Where were you and the other troll-spawned whores of Myrkviðr when your precious dragon came against Orkahaugr, eh? In the days after Bálegyr fell at Mag Tuiredh?” Grimnir spat, recalling the cataclysmic battle in distant Ireland where his father was slain fighting the vestálfar, the West-elves of Èriu. “Oh, aye, I remember: hiding in your caves, with your potions and your brews! I side with my people, hag, though I may be all that’s left of them.

  “As for the hymn-singers and their Nailed God, the whole wretched lot are dug in like maggots! Kill one and five more spring up!” He snorted in derision. “They are here to stay and no prophecy is going to change that. You’d best get used to it.”

  Halla turned away, her eyes fixed on the rune she clutched in her gnarled fingers. “We shall see. The prophecy is truth. Oaths or no, it still has the power to remake the world.”

  Grimnir stared at her a moment, his gaze inscrutable, then ducked his head and spat. Nostrils flaring, he loped from the longhouse to pick up the trail of the little bird who’d fled.

  “Do not harm her, skrælingr!” Halla bellowed after him. “Do you hear me? She is a part of this!”

  * * *

  DÍSA REACHED THE TWENTY-COUNT, THEN thirty; she was fast approaching the count of fifty when she finally decided to rise. The ground’s cold dampness had seeped through the fabric of her tunic; that, coupled with the sick palsy that followed on the heels of panic, left her feeling brittle and hollow, like an ice-bound reed.

  She wondered, as she rose to a crouch: had this all been in jest? The beast’s idea of a joke? Only a healthy inborn sense of skepticism kept her from rushing out and confronting the so-called law-giver of Hrafnhaugr. Instead, she inched forward, intent on peering around the porch-front of the longhouse; that’s when Dísa heard their voices. She crept closer. She was careful of her footing. Through a narrow window above her head, the young woman heard Grimnir’s harsh accent, ancient and distinct; she heard the weird crone’s voice devolve into singsong chanting. She drew herself up, straining to hear the words, when she heard the meaty thump of a fist striking flesh. Dísa froze.

  Had he killed her?

  The haft of the axe clutched in Dísa’s fist grew slick with sweat. She changed hands and wiped her palm down the thigh of her tunic. That crone was his ally, she reckoned, perhaps even his friend. And if that wretched monster could kill a friend without second thought …

  Dísa cursed. She should have skinned out when she had the chance. Aye, she thought, I could have been halfway to the boundary stone, by now. Instead, I’m standing here like a damnable fool, waiting for death. That revelation brought a snarl to the young woman’s lips. She bared her teeth, her face settling into a mask of resolve. She would wait no longer.

  Dísa crept to the corner. There, she crouched in the well of darkness left by the extinguished torch. Ruddy light spilled out from beneath the porch, its wolf-and-serpent carved posts throwing long shadows over the head of the steps. To Dísa’s credit, she felt a momentary sense of relief when she heard the old woman’s voice once more. It rose to a hard-edged shriek: “Do not harm her, skrælingr! Do you hear me? She is a part of this!”

  And though Dísa Dagrúnsdottir was glad the crone was alive, it did nothing to lessen her resolve. The die was cast. She let the axe drop to her side, her grip on its haft firm but not rigid—just as Sigrún had taught her.

  Grimnir’s shadow preceded him. Dísa watched it stretch into the night; she held perfectly still, not even daring to breathe as his apish body filled the doorway of the longhouse. Chuckling with anticipation, he crossed the threshold and took off at a slow lope. Grimnir grabbed one of the carved posts supporting the roof of the porch as he went by, using it to swing himself out toward the head of the steps. There, he stopped and bent nearly double, sniffing and snuffling as he sought Dísa’s trail.

  Dísa heard her grandmother’s voice in her head: You will have one chance, Sigrún had told them last autumn as she and Auða schooled the younger Daughters of the Raven on how to handle themselves. Scant few of the others would become like the pair of them—skjaldmær, grim and deadly maidens into whose hearts the Gods had decanted the wine of slaughter—but they all had to know how to use axe and knife, to defend Hrafnhaugr against the depredations of the Norse, the Christian Swedes, or the hymn-singing Danes. One chance! You must put your man down before he can lay his hands upon you. Strike fast! Strike hard! Dísa recalled Sigrún’s shoulders rising and falling in a fatalistic shrug. Or die.

  Strike fast. Strike hard. Or die.

  Dísa Dagrúnsdottir did just that.

  She forced aside every shred of fear, every scrap of doubt. Shoved it down deep and locked it away. What grew in its place was rage, black and icy. Why should she run in fear? She sprang from the loins of Dagrún Spear-breaker; she was a Daughter of the Raven, bearer of the rune Dagaz; she was the Day-strider, chosen of the Gods. She was skjaldmær, shieldmaiden.

  The call of her blood stung Dísa to action. She came off the wall and rounded the corner; she crossed through the bar of light spilling from the interior of the longhouse, heedless of shadows. The young woman’s stride lengthened until she moved at speed, but as silent as a hunting cat.

  Strike fast.

  Dísa angled for Grimnir’s blind side. A tiny voice deep within warned her that she risked committing blasphemy by slaying the Tangled God’s herald, but her pride crushed it. If she could slay him then he was no immortal, and if he was no immortal …

  Strike hard.

  Dísa was on him a heartbeat later. She came on in a rush; the head of her stolen axe whistled through the chill air as she aimed its killing edge for the back of the beast’s skull. Breath hissed between clenched teeth. She threw her right shoulder into the blow, adding the weight behind her right leg as it touched the earth. Dísa imagined that blow landing; she imagined the jar
ring moment of impact, the wet crunch. She imagined his skull coming apart in a welter of blood and brain. All of this Dísa saw in the twinkling that remained. Triumph swelled in her breast …

  Or die.

  And then, he moved.

  Like a serpent, Grimnir twisted to his right; he ducked under her arm, letting the axe-head skim so close to his skull that it clinked against the bone and silver beads woven into his hair. He spun around and came up behind her. And while this change in fortunes left her confused, to her credit Dísa did not falter and pitch forward on her face. No, she did as Auða or her grandmother would have done—she adapted.

  With a grace and speed she did not know she possessed, Dísa recovered from that missed blow and reversed her momentum. Sinew creaked as she wheeled to her right, the axe in her fist coming up in a backhand strike. And while she thought she was fast, Dísa still moved a fraction too slow.

  Her wrist slapped into the palm of Grimnir’s black-nailed hand.

  For an age of the earth, it seemed, they stared at one another—one eye as bright and red as a forge-glede boring into two as deep and blue as lake ice. Dísa saw nothing human in that gaze. No fear, no apprehension; neither pity nor kindness. Only hate. Hate as ancient as Yggðrasil, itself, and as long as Time. Hate that knew no border or boundary. Here was a creature of the Elder World, who wanted nothing more than to see the doom of Ragnarök come to pass. And as the elongated span of time drew to a close, for the briefest instant Dísa fancied she saw the glimmer of something familiar in Grimnir’s darkling visage … the pale shadow of respect.

  The tableau held a moment longer, and then it was gone. Dísa had time to apprehend a slow and malicious smile twisting Grimnir’s thin lips; his nostrils flared as he drew a deep draught of air. Fingers like steel cords tightened around her slender wrist.

  And then, she felt an explosion of pain below her ribs that wrenched a scream from her. Twice, Grimnir punched her in the right kidney—quick jabs that sent waves of nausea rippling up through her frame.

  Still, Dísa did not crumple.

  With an incoherent cry of fury, the young woman twisted in his grasp and struck across her body. She put everything into that blow: every scrap of rage and fear, every hurt done to her over the span of her short life, the weight of every grief-shed tear. All of it, she thrust into the knuckles of her left hand even as she drove her fist into the bridge of his nose. She felt the crunch of cartilage. Grimnir’s head rocked back; ropes of black blood, thick and reeking of wet iron, dribbled from his nostrils and down his chin. But as he recovered from the blow the beast’s smile widened, lips peeling back over sharp yellow canines.

  From somewhere behind them, Dísa heard the eerie voice of the witch, Halla: “Skrælingr! Hold—”

  If Grimnir heard, he gave no sign. His eye never flickered toward the sound; the bloody smile he wore turned to a snarl. His free hand snaked up from behind and clamped down savagely on the nape of Dísa’s neck.

  She struggled, expecting death to come with a sharp twist.

  And still, she fought. But before she could so much as draw her arm back for that final, futile blow, Grimnir responded with a sharp forward snap of his head, laughing as he smashed the hard bones of his forehead into her face.

  Dísa heard the dull crunch of impact before her world went white and silent and she knew nothing more.

  4

  She wakes to smoke and to ash and to the heat of crackling flames. Clad in tattered mail, her limbs feel heavy and useless, weary from fighting. Her dark hair is scorched; her silver beads and bone fetishes have long since turned to slag and charred coal. Blood smears her face. She touches it, feels naked bone beneath her questing fingertips. A flap of skin hangs there by a slender thread of flesh. And her heart breaks, for she apprehends what it is—her raven tattoo, given to her as a child and made larger each year as she grew into a young woman. It is the mark of her people. It is her identity—and the edge of some hymn-singer’s knife blade has flayed it from her skull. With exaggerated care, she pulls it free and cradles it in her hands.

  It is a dead thing, all pale flesh and lifeless ink. But it has served her well and it deserves more than a shallow grave. With solemn purpose, she lays the tattooed half of her face on one of the myriad fires burning close at hand. She watches that scrap of flesh crumble to ash; she watches as the raven imprisoned within flies free on wings wrought of ink and dreams. She watches as it rises into the fiery heavens to join the conflagration that is Ragnarök.

  The young woman sighs and clambers to her feet, missing already the ethereal part of herself her raven had embodied. Without it, she is nothing more than flesh, bone, and mud—like the corpses that surround her. They lie amid the burning wreckage of Hrafnhaugr. Pale and bloody-limbed Geats intertwine with bearded Danes and dark-eyed Swedes, their ragged surcoats emblazoned with the Nailed God’s cross. She cannot speak. The weight of a broken lance pulls at her rib cage. She has no recollection of how it got there, or whose hands wielded it; she did not know which wretched bastard among the dead had planted the iron head deep in her guts. That she could not feel it was both a balm and a concern.

  The young woman holds the splintered remains of the lance’s shaft tight as she limps back from the ruined gates, down streets she has known since she was a child. Despite the heat, the exposed bone of her face feels cold. She wipes away a gobbet of blood. Near the center of the village, where the great rune stone that has stood since the days of her forefathers has toppled, she beholds an eerie sight: a giant cross rises from the rubble; nailed to this, arms outstretched as if to embrace the suffering of the world, she sees a pale man with hair the color of milk. He laughs at his own agony, muttering:

  “Miklagarðr twas called, | where kings wore purple,

  And men begged in the street;

  Broken, our oaths were, | though sworn by the Cross,

  When the dogs of St. Mark sought payment.”

  The young woman twists the lance shaft and draws the blood-slimed weapon from her side. With a scrap of cloth, she binds her injury—though it pains her not; then, she clambers up the pile of rubble and touches the white foot of the hanging man. His laughter ceases as he looks down at her, reddish eyes reflecting madness and a thirst for death. Nodding, she drives the broken lance up under his ribs.

  He dies with a shudder and a long drawn-out sigh …

  She staggers down from the rubble and moves on, past a thin, bearded man who drops an ancient sword, calls upon his Nailed God for succor, and takes up a length of ragged iron chain. This, he uses to flense the flesh from his knobby spine. With each blow, he cries out: “Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani?”

  The young woman picks up a sword from where the so-called holy man had dropped it—its long, dwarf-forged blade reflecting the cruel light of the heavens. She is poised to strike this madman down when a flicker of movement catches her eye. She turns. A familiar figure approaches, stoop-shouldered and bandy-legged, the sworn protector of Hrafnhaugr. The Hooded One. He is stripped to the waist and sweating as he pulls a laden cart behind him, its contents hidden by a blood-smirched square of canvas. She wants to berate him for the destruction, but her voice is lost to the keening wind over the battlefield. Instead, the young woman watches as he stops by a welter of corpses, kicks them apart, and draws an axe from his belt. Stooping, he hacks their heads off, seizes them by their hair, and carries them to his cart. She drifts closer.

  He grins at her, winking, as he draws the canvas back to reveal a mound of severed heads. Hundreds of them. Familiar faces stare up at her with dead, glassy eyes. She sees ancient Kolgríma beside young Bryngerðr, whose inked raven is barely dry; Hreðel is there, with his son, Flóki; the two Bjorns, Svarti and Hvítr—the Black and the White; Auða is there, as is hard-eyed Sigrún, her features severe even in death. Resting atop the others is a face she does not recognize—harder than Sigrún’s, with ashen hair and eyes as pale as the winter sky. But not a face she fears. A name rises unbidden to her lips: �
��Úlfrún.” And for her, the young woman feels a pang of … love? The love of a daughter for her mother? Or is it guilt? Guilt arising from knowing she has replaced her mother in the young woman’s esteem?

  The Hooded One tosses the other heads atop the pile, dislodging the woman’s. It rolls down the heap and falls over the side, landing at her feet. Carefully, she picks the head up and returns it to the cart.

  “Best leg it, little bird,” the Hooded One growls, gesturing with his axe in the direction he had come. “And leg it quick, ere he finds you.”

  She turns and walks in the direction he’d indicated, the sword dragging a furrow in the earth behind her.

  “Don’t be a fool, you dunghill wretch!” he calls after her.

  Ahead, a figure waits. It bears the shape of a man, though hunched and as twisted as the staff he leans upon; he is clad in a voluminous cloak with a slouch hat pulled low. A single malevolent eye gleams from beneath the brim.

  She reckons he is the cause of this, like a spider in human form who sits at the heart of a vast web, waiting for the perfect time to strike. All things under heaven are but mere strands of this web, spun and stretched taut and linked to other strands. It has no pattern she can discern, this web, but she knows that to cause ripples across it is to court death.

  But she is not afraid.

  Slowly, she walks across the scorched ruin of Hrafnhaugr, her sword scraping stone.

  She will end it.

  She, who springs from the loins of Dagrún Spear-breaker; she, who is a Daughter of the Raven, bearer of the rune Dagaz; she, who is the Day-strider, chosen of the Gods. She, who is skjaldmær, shieldmaiden.

  She is not afraid.

  She will end it.

  Here.

  Now.

  She raises her dwarf-forged sword …

  “Niðing,” the stranger says in a voice deeper than Vänern’s heart.