Twilight of the Gods

by Scott Oden

  “That’s enough, girl,” Hrútr said. “He is your chief, and respect must be paid. Time is short. We must return.”

  “Then go.”

  Askr took a step toward her. “Auða is more patient than we are. Hreðel wants you to attend him. That was not an invitation. We will drag you back with us, if we must.” The others nodded, even Auða—though she seemed reluctant.

  Dísa’s lips peeled back in a smile identical to Grimnir’s—cold and humorless and brimming with scorn. Her dark-rimmed eyes never left Askr’s as she ducked her head and spat at his feet. Dísa watched as anger suffused his features; watched as he took another step toward her … until Auða put out a restraining hand.

  “Why are you being like this, cousin?” said the older woman.

  “Why am I not abasing myself before that idiot, you mean?”

  Auða’s face hardened. “No! Why you are not doing your duty to your sworn lord is what I mean!”

  “Oh, but I am,” Dísa replied. “I am not the priestess of Hreðel, am I? No, cousin. I serve the Hooded One, and the Hooded One has spoken: let Jarl Hreðel dry his tears and act like a man whose son has fared forth to earn his war-name, not like a sulking old harridan whose lord has taken a younger wife! Go! Tell him what the Hooded One has commanded.” Dísa turned away.

  The gesture was calculated. She meant to draw out their true intent, to force them into playing their hand. “Call the tune,” Grimnir would say, “and make your enemy dance to it.” And Auða danced. Dísa could not see the sign she made to Askr, but she knew she made such a sign. She could not see the snarl of pleasure that writhed across Askr’s bearded visage, but she knew he wore such a snarl. And though she willingly blinded herself by turning away, Dísa’s other senses were as sharp as a fox’s. She heard the crunch of stones as Askr shifted his weight to his lead foot; she heard the creak of tendons and the hissing of his breath as he committed fully to a lunge that should have ended with her hard in his grasp.

  This, she heard. And, a heartbeat before Askr’s fingers clamped down on her shoulder, Dísa Dagrúnsdottir moved. She sidestepped and spun; steel hissed on leather as she aired the blade of her seax. She could have killed him, then. She saw it; by the sudden fear gleaming in his eyes as he passed, Askr saw it, too. But quick as a serpent, Dísa lashed out with the pommel. Her momentum added weight to the blow, and it connected with the back of Askr’s skull. There came a dull thud. Askr stumbled. His eyes rolled back in his head as he pitched face-first onto the snow-spotted shingle.

  Dísa did not stop to crow. She came around and leveled her seax at Hrútr, who took a step toward his unconscious kinsman. “Raise that spear,” she growled, “and you will join him! Look at me, cousin!”

  Auða, her sword half-drawn, lifted her stunned gaze from Askr to the length of razor-edged steel in Dísa’s fist. Behind them, Bjorn Hvítr watched all this unfold with a thunderous scowl across his craggy brow.

  “He’ll have an aching head and a bruise upon his pride,” Dísa said, her gaze flickering between the three. “Now take him and go, lest one of you comes to harm!”

  Auða shook her head. “We have our orders, cousin. You’re coming with us.”

  “Think again, cousin!”

  “Enough!” Bjorn Hvítr roared. The giant Geat stalked across the shingle, axe in hand; he shouldered past Hrútr and Auða and rolled toward Dísa like an avalanche of muscle. A thrill of fear raced up her spine as she eyed his great bulk, the slabs of meat like iron plate, legs like tree trunks, and the hard-boned head tilted toward her. His brown eyes bore no trace of anger. Still, Dísa backed away. She edged toward the safety of the trees as Auða and her bedmate fanned out to either side.

  “Come, girl,” Bjorn said softly. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

  Dísa bared her teeth; she stopped moving and dropped to a fighting crouch.

  Suddenly, an arrow hissed from the tree line. The wind from its passing fanned the fey tangles of Dísa’s hair. It pierced its target, tearing a bloody furrow through Bjorn Hvítr’s flesh and taking off most of his right ear. The giant Geat howled, clutching the side of his head. Auða and Hrútr froze; Dísa risked a glance over her shoulder, and then loosed her pent-up breath in a sigh of relief when she saw a monstrous figure emerge from the trees.

  She knew it was Grimnir, but he did not look like himself. Gone was his old brigandine coat. Now, he sported a hauberk of blackened mail that hung to mid-thigh, and a broad belt strung with human scalps. A wolf-skin cloak hung from his shoulders and an eerie mask and headdress hid his face from casual view. The headdress, Dísa reckoned, was made from the age-blackened skull of a huge stag. Over time, Grimnir had trimmed the antlers and carved them until he had two curling horns that came down—one on either side of his face. The mask was fashioned from a wolf’s skull, rune-carved and streaked with red pigment. From one cavernous socket Grimnir’s red eye gleamed even in the pale light of morning.

  He stalked across the shingle, a great black bow in his hands; he had a second arrow already on the nock and the string half drawn. The hilt of his seax jutted from its scabbard on his left hip. Fear crackled before him like the lightning that presaged a storm as he drew himself up to his full height. “Are you thieves or fools?” he snarled, his voice made deep and hollow by the mask. “Either way, touch her again and I will send you as a beggar down the road to Hel!”

  Dísa straightened and offered Grimnir an awkward bow. “My lord, I—”

  “Be silent, little fool! We will have words later, you and I! For now, you louts will answer my question: are you thieves or fools?”

  Dísa took his rebuke to heart. She kept silent and shifted her attention to Auða and the others. Though they’d never seen him, they knew they faced the Tangled God’s immortal herald, the inscrutable Hooded One. Hrútr’s tongue froze to the roof of his mouth. He trembled and averted his eyes. Bjorn Hvítr clutched his ruined ear and stared at his feet. Only Auða had the courage to raise her eyes to meet Grimnir’s wrathful gaze.

  “We are neither,” she stammered, then added as an afterthought: “lord.”

  “Then what are you, eh? If you’re not fools or thieves?”

  “I am Auða of the Raven, and these are Jarl Hreðel’s sworn men. He sent us to fetch her.” Auða nodded at Dísa. “She must come with us. The Jarl commands it.”

  “Must she now?” Grimnir said. Dísa winced at her cousin’s choice of words. “Hreðel commands it, does he? Am I to bend myself to Hreðel’s will, then? Am I to let you and these so-called sworn men of Hreðel’s just march up to my door and take what is mine, without so much as a ‘by your leave’? Tell me, you miserable sack of bones, who is Hreðel?”

  Auða frowned, plainly confused by the question. Blooms of color tinted her cheeks, her anger causing her blade hand to twitch. She glanced sidelong at the men but neither could meet her eye. “Who … who is Hreðel?”

  “Aye, that’s what I said, Auða of the Raven!”

  “He’s th-the Jarl … the Jarl of Hrafnhaugr and Chief of the Raven-Geats.”

  “Hrafnhaugr, eh?” Grimnir handed his bow to Dísa. She heard him take a snuffling breath as he walked closer to Auða, Bjorn, and Hrútr, smelling their fear, their anger. “So, this Hreðel: he was there when the foundations of Hrafnhaugr were laid? And when the wretched Norse tried to burn the walls and enslave the Geats in that first year, it was Hreðel’s blade that cut down the Norse war-chief, eh?” Grimnir reached Askr, who groaned and struggled to rise. He caught a handful of Askr’s hair and hauled him to his feet, fairly shoving him into Hrútr’s grasp. Both men staggered back. “For twenty-three miserable generations of your kind, it’s been Hreðel whose had the thankless task of keeping you Geats safe, is it?”

  Auða licked her lips. “No.”

  “No? Well, if it’s not Hreðel, then who was it, little bird?” Grimnir glanced back at Dísa. “Who has done these things?”

  “You, lord.”

  “Aye, me.” Grimnir rounded on Auða.
Crossing the interval between them in two long steps, he put the eye sockets of his wolf-mask close to her face, his hot breath steaming in the chill air. She recoiled, her hand dropping to the hilt of her sword. “Tell me, Auða of the Raven, why should I give a Swede’s fart what your precious Hreðel wants?” His gaze dropped to her hand, wrapped white-knuckle tight around her sword’s leather and wire-wrapped hilt. “You think you can take my measure? The lot of you, you filthy swine, think you can take me?” His head moved slightly from side to side. Hrútr had passed his spear to Askr, who leaned heavily on it; Hrútr, too, had a hand on his sword, loosening the blade in its scabbard. On the other side of Auða, Bjorn Hvítr fingered his axe haft with a bloody hand. “You going to hew me down with that log-splitter, you dunghill rat?” Grimnir’s laugh bore the chill of the grave. “Four against one, little bird! Are these fair odds among your kind?”

  Dísa shrugged. “Fair enough, I think. I would ask a favor, lord. Don’t kill them.”

  “A favor? You think you’ve earned that right, eh? Why did I have to find out from old Halla that their wretched Hreðel threatened to—how did she put it?—‘come for my bastard head’ and ‘burn even the memory of me from this land’?”

  “Because I knew this is what would happen!” Dísa caught the hint of movement as Hrútr bared a hand-span of steel. “Hrútr, damn your ignorant hide! Keep that up and I’ll skewer you before our lord has the chance!”

  “Bastard’s not my lord,” Hrútr said.

  “Hrútr!” Auða snapped. The man stopped moving.

  Grimnir swung around to face him. “I have borne the insults of your kind for long enough! It’s high time I remind you lot who is the servant, here, and who is the master!”

  Hrútr must have seen his doom in Grimnir’s shadowed gaze, for with a curse he dragged his sword the rest of the way from its scabbard. His movements galvanized the other three—all veterans of Odin’s weather, of the fume and broil of the shield wall. But as quick as they were, as skilled and as fell-handed were these journeymen of war, here they faced a master of the killer’s art.

  Dísa shouted a warning; before its echo reached a crescendo and died away, Grimnir was in motion. Hrútr and Askr stepped back to gain room to maneuver. But ere they took a second step, Grimnir’s taloned hands knotted in each man’s hair. He slammed their heads together. The crack of impact and both men went down, stunned.

  Auða’s sword rang as it cleared the mouth of its scabbard. Grimnir twisted, sidestepped the blow, and drove the hard point of his elbow into the woman’s temple. She staggered. Grimnir seized her by the neck and shoved her into Bjorn Hvítr’s path, her sword scraping the ground as it tumbled from her nerveless fingers. Bjorn tried to catch her with his left arm; with his right, he swung his axe. Grimnir caught that thick wrist with one hand. Hissing, he drove the first ridge of knuckles into the hollow of Bjorn’s throat.

  Bjorn staggered, gagging for breath. Auða’s weight dragged him to his knees.

  Grimnir ambled on by, deaf to their groans and slurred curses. He went to their boat, leaned over the gunwale, and drew out one of the oars: spruce-carved, its grain gone dark with age and cracked by the elements. Dísa could tell he wore a broad grin despite the concealing mask. He retraced his steps, swinging the oar to get a feel for its weight and heft. Bjorn struggled to stand; near him, Auða rolled onto her stomach and fought to get her legs under her. Dísa willed her to stay down. Of the kinsmen, Askr and Hrútr, only the latter had any fight left in him. He clawed for the fallen spear, and had risen to his knees when Grimnir reached him.

  The oar whistled through the air, its tight arc ending in a dull crack as Grimnir broke the blade against the back of Hrútr’s skull. The man pitched face-first onto the shingle and did not move.

  Grimnir reversed the broken oar; a quick jab—driving the butt end into the side of Bjorn Hvítr’s head, just behind the ear—took care of the thickly muscled Geat. That left only Auða. She glared up at Grimnir. “Don’t—”

  Grimnir kicked her in the face.

  “Next time, I won’t be so gentle,” he said, then turned to Dísa. “And next time, you little wretch, you’d best tell me when the likes of Hreðel is running his mouth and making threats!”

  “I thought it was best—”

  “Nár! You didn’t think, little bird! You had your eye fixed on the prize and wanted nothing to come between you and it!” Grudgingly, he added: “I can admire that, to a point!”

  “What will you do?”

  Grimnir fell silent. Turning, he hooked one thumb in his belt; the other he draped over the pommel of his seax. He looked out over the choppy waters of the Skærvík, lost in thought. His black-nailed finger tapped the cross-guard—a tuneless rhythm that punctuated his annoyance. Finally, he stirred and looked askance at her. “It’s high time we put your newfound skills to good use. Get over here and grab this sack of bones. I’ll get these other rats…”

  * * *

  UNDER A VEIL OF THICK gray clouds, night descended swiftly on Gautheimr, the Geat-home, which perched atop its bluff overlooking the leaden waters of Lake Vänern. The air under those carved eaves was as dark and foreboding as the twilight. A fire crackling on the stone hearth afforded little in the way of heat or light. Around tables, near braziers filled with sullen coals, the Jarl’s sworn men sat in small groups; some mended or polished their war gear while others merely drank from the dwindling stocks of ale and brooded.

  Closer to the doors, the Daughters of the Raven sat in a knot around Sigrún, who warmed her hands over a brazier, glaring up at the figure draped across the high seat with undisguised contempt. Hreðel drowsed in a drunken stupor, surrounded by a carpet of broken crockery jars—the last of Hrafnhaugr’s stores of wine. The Jarl had not washed in days; his beard was tangled and stiff with spilled food, his hair unkempt, and he stank.

  “You’d think the bastard was in mourning,” Sigrún hissed. She accepted a bowl of barley stew and a wedge of coarse bread from one of the younger Daughters.

  “Maybe Auða will bring him good news,” Geira said. She was a scarred and knotted figure, a few years Sigrún’s junior; Kolgríma had been her sister.

  Sigrún sniffed. “If that fool girl, Dísa, would do her duty, we’d need not send Auða hunting for word of Flóki. Gods know, I should have drowned that one at birth and told her mother she was stillborn.”

  “Listen to yourself, Sigrún.” Geira looked up from her meager stew. “The rest of us, we’d be proud to have a granddaughter taken to serve as the Hooded One’s priestess. But you? You grouse and nitpick everything that poor girl does.”

  “I don’t recall it being your business, Geira.”

  “It’s all our business, old woman,” Geira replied, gesturing with her spoon. “You are the eldest, but you are not our chief. Dísa is, as Kolgríma was before her. Speak civilly of her, no matter how badly it galls you, or cut that mark from your cheek and join the other old crones!”

  Sigrún’s face darkened; a gleam flickered in her eyes, presaging violence the way distant lightning presaged a storm. But her retort was lost when the door to Gautheimr slammed open.

  A man stood on the threshold, barrel-chested and bandy-legged and sporting a bushy gray beard that flowed like moss down the craggy face of an oak. Old Hygge’s son, he was, called Hygelac. He stared up at the high seat, lines of care and worry etched deep into his broad forehead as he saw the state of the Jarl. He let his gaze roam over the faces of those in attendance. There was a growing sense of urgency about him. Finally, his eyes settled on Sigrún. “Something’s happened, down at the dock,” Hygelac said, pointing back the way he’d come. A builder of ships and boats, Hygelac stank of the decoctions of his trade, of tar and brine, resin and oakum. “Rouse the Jarl. He needs to see this with his own eyes.”

  “What goes?”

  “The ones he sent out? They’ve returned. Rouse him, lady. He needs to bear witness.”

  Sigrún stared at the shipwright a moment longer be
fore motioning for Bjorn Svarti. “Wake him, if you can.” Nodding, Bjorn Svarti strode up to the high seat and ascended the steps.

  “Jarl,” he said. Then, louder: “Jarl Hreðel!”

  Hreðel stirred; he groaned and opened one eye. Suddenly, both eyes flew open. Hreðel started forward, rank breath hissing between his teeth as he grasped Bjorn Svarti’s wrist. “Flóki!”

  Bjorn caught him by the shoulder. “No, Jarl. It’s Svarti.”

  “Svarti?” Hreðel blinked back tears. “I—I thought you were…”

  “Jarl.”

  Hreðel cleared his throat. He nodded. “What is it, Svarti? What goes? Have they brought the girl back?”

  “Hygelac has found something. He says you need to follow him to the docks.”

  Hreðel waved that notion aside. “I am too tired for games, Svarti. You go as my eyes and ears.”

  There was a resolute set to the saturnine Geat’s jaw. “No, Jarl,” he said. “Hygelac Hyggesson bids you rise and follow. He does not call for Bjorn Svarti.”

  Behind them, murmurs of concern rippled through Gautheimr. Had some ill befallen Auða and the lads? Hreðel listened; finally, he nodded. The Jarl grunted and heaved himself upright. “Lead on, then.” He pushed away Svarti’s attempt to steady him, and staggered along at the head of a procession—the Daughters falling in alongside the Jarl’s sworn men, servants, and other hangers-on. On Hygelac’s heels, the lot of them filed from Gautheimr.

  It took less than a quarter of an hour to negotiate their way down to the dock—the same dock they’d sent Dísa off from. Heavy flakes of snow swirled down from the heavens, sizzling in the torch flames or sticking to cloaks and hoods. The woods around them seemed alive with unseen menace; hands clapped to sword hilts, and men drew their axes tighter.

  “Aye,” Hygelac said, shivering. “It’s like Odin himself has his squinty eye upon you.”