Twilight of the Gods

by Scott Oden

  “Are you not?” he replied. “Though you are but a bit player in it, you’ve seen fit to add your voice to the chorus often enough:

  “When the years tally | nine times nine times nine,

  again, and war-reek | wafts like dragon breath;

  when Fimbulvetr | hides the pallid sun,

  the monstrous Serpent | shall writhe in fury.

  “Sköll bays aloud | after Dvalin’s toy.

  The fetter shall break | and the wolf run free;

  Dark-jawed devourer | of light-bringer’s steed.

  And in Vänern’s embrace | the earth splits asunder.

  “From the depths a barrow | rises through the water,

  the stone-girdled hall | of Aranæs, where dwells

  Jörmungandr’s spawn, | the Malice-Striker.

  Its dread bones rattle | and herald an end.

  “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’s milky eyes narrowed. “That’s not your composition, though, is it? Nor is this a play of your devising. What are you, under that mask you wear, but some poor fool caught in a snare and made to dance?”

  The stranger laughed. “Caught, indeed. I was left like offal along the Ash-Road, where the tangled branches of Yggðrasil pierce the Nine Worlds. There my master found me, broken and near death. He gave me a new purpose, lent me his hamingja, his luck. He has entrusted me with the plot of his play and I will see it performed.” The stranger rose to his feet and came nearer to the fire. He extended his hands, warming his fingers. “But I have a thorny problem. The time for bit players is at an end. The principals are ready to take the stage. I have my Wolf, my she-Wolf, my precious little Day who gives way to Night.” He glanced around the longhouse. “I even have Ymir’s sons poised to dance, and Malice-Striker waiting in the wings.” He turned his head and fixed Halla in his malevolent gaze. “But I seem to have one puppet too many, niðingr.”

  “Perhaps,” Halla said, clambering to her feet. “Perhaps it is my lot to join your audience.”

  The stranger considered this, but shook his head after a moment. “I think not. The audience should not know quite so much about the play. And you know more than you let on, don’t you? Yes, I can tell from that gleam of recognition in your eyes, child of Myrkviðr. You know from whence I come. And with a well-timed word in the wrong ear you could ruin my surprise.”

  “Not if our purposes are aligned,” Halla said. “Do we not want the same thing? To see the prophecy fulfilled? To see the Nailed God’s dominion ended and the Elder World restored? Unless…” she looked up sharply, her milky eyes thinning to slits, “… unless that’s not what this play is about.” She recalled the Eye of Mimir; the prize the two wolves fought over, it was a lie. “The prophecy,” she said slowly, backing away from the stranger. “The prophecy is a lie, isn’t it?”

  The stranger tsked. “Not a lie so much as a diversion. But come. Do not be afraid.” He loomed over Halla as she moved farther from him. She came up against something unyielding—Grimnir’s throne—and stopped. Still, the cloaked silhouette grew; she smelled the cold stench of Ásgarðr flowing from under the folds of his mantle as it closed over her.

  Darkness. The sensation of being wrenched from her feet, stomach churning and disorienting. She can discern no up or down; neither ground below nor sky above. She has the impression of roiling smoke, flashes of fire. A howling gale pummels her ears. Through the smoke, she beholds a crucified titan. He hangs from a tree whose boughs cradle nine worlds—mighty Yggðrasil. The titan is one-eyed and fey-bearded, with a pair of giant ravens perched on his naked shoulders. She averts her gaze. Her nostrils fill with the scent of iron and blood and smoke—the fume and wrack of war. She tumbles, plummets back into darkness.

  Halla fell to her knees, clutching the leaf mold as she fought against a roaring in her skull. It came from all around her; its deep intonation vibrated her diaphragm. And it only stopped when she realized it was the sound of her own scream.

  Panting like a dog, she opened her eyes and glanced about. The longhouse was gone, its fire and its warmth replaced by bone-chilling cold and the damp stench of the nearby bog. The stranger’s sorcery had brought her here, to the middle of the forest. She looked for the stranger but could not see him—though she felt his malignant gaze.

  “If you mean to kill me,” Halla’s voice quavered, “do it and have done. I’ll not beg.”

  She heard him laugh—a wheezing, humorless sound like iron scraping flint. “You think me so base as to betray the laws of hospitality? No, you’ll not die by my hand. Not when I can simply let the blood of Járnviðja do the deed for me.”

  Instantly, she apprehended his meaning. Her head swiveled; she looked to the east, where fire touched the velvet sky, heralding the coming of dawn. Fear gibbered through Halla’s brain, but the old troll-woman wasted no time. She scrambled to her feet, still unsteady, and lumbered south, toward the growing bog-reek. Halla did not know precisely where she was, but she trusted her gut; she trusted she was near enough to reach the shelter of the longhouse before the inevitable rising of the sun. Otherwise, why would that cruel bastard give her a chance?

  “Hurry, child!” he said, his voice accompanied by the sudden rush of wings. “Hurry! Ere bright Álfröðull, the Elf-beam, casts her gaze upon you!”

  Halla ran.

  Through the rising light, through the graying of night into day, she ran; she ran till she thought her heart would burst, till her lungs burned. Down slopes carpeted in drifts of leaves, through copses and tangled webs of briar and thorn, she ran. Halla skidded around boulders and tripped over root boles; she caught herself against the rough trunks of trees, oblivious to the patches of abraded skin these collisions caused. All the while, her mind sought the touch of the landvættir. Against a mammoth chestnut tree—easily a century old—she felt the fleeting sensation of pity, then silence.

  The old troll-woman snarled and spat. So be it, she said to herself, a mantra of resolve. So be it. She paused a moment, panting, her breath steaming in the chill air. She scanned the ground, kicked leaves aside. There, under the mold, she saw a layer of old chestnut mast, the husks and seeds gone black with rot. She snatched up a handful of weathered chestnuts and sorted them with quick flicks of her fingers until only four remained.

  Just in case, she told herself, glancing up. The top of the chestnut tree gleamed with the sun’s golden light. Halla licked her lips, cursed, and pushed off the craggy trunk. As she ran, her hard thumbnail scratched a symbol in each chestnut. A rune. And she prayed to Father Ymir she had the right answer—for she could feel a heaviness spreading through her legs. Her feet tingled, and her hands felt stony and hard.

  Squinting against the painful light, she could just make out the path of split logs leading to the longhouse, through the trees. She was at the edge of the bog, and the house, itself, was just there. Safety. Home. So close.

  Halla forced her limbs to move faster. Her breath came in gulps and wheezes as she hopped through the cold mud to clamber onto the corduroy of logs; she struggled and limped to the base of the stairs, past half-submerged skeletons and decaying corpses, spears driven upright in the bog-filth. She clawed her way up. But as she reached the head of the stairs—just a short sprint to the open door of the longhouse—the sun crested the eastern horizon.

  Its unbearable light struck her full in the face.

  “Ymir!” she cried, closing her eyes against the hateful glare. “Father of Frost, let my vengeance bear fruit!” And Halla, last daughter of Járnviðja, who had tasted the songs of creation under the limitless boughs of Myrkviðr, let fall the rune-etched chestnuts she’d clutched in her palm. Tendons rasped and creaked; her spine grew rigid. Her skin took on a grayish cast, like fine granite. And soundlessly, she returned to the stone from which her kind
was fashioned.

  17

  In the chill gloaming that presaged the dawn, a mist rose from the surface of Lake Vänern. It crawled inland, wreathing the peninsula of Hrafnhaugr in gray fleece. The fog crept along—a thousand tendrils of spectral vapor that caressed the trees and brushed the tops of the tall winter grasses. Birds raised their heads from their coverts, their voices silent. Foxes and martens peered out from thickets, ever wary. There was a curious scent on the still air. It caused the deer to pause, the boar to hunker down; it drew wolf and raven as music draws a dancer. It was the stench of iron, and with it came the promise of death.

  For through the mist came the stamp of feet and the rattle of harness as Úlfrún’s war-band, with Dísa in the lead, drew near the rope and timber bridge that reached across the Scar.

  “These trees,” Dísa heard Forne mutter as they pushed through the grove of ash and willow. “Too much cover. Give me half a day and I’d burn the lot of them.”

  “We may not have half a day,” Úlfrún replied.

  Dísa saw the spirit pole loom from the mist. Approaching, she touched its base and stopped at the head of the bridge. “No enemy of Hrafnhaugr has ever made it this far,” Dísa said.

  Behind her, Forne whistled. “This is more to my liking. We could exact a blood price, here. How far to the gates?”

  Dísa stirred. “A couple hundred yards, perhaps. The road rises and makes three sharp turns before reaching the gate.”

  Forne nodded. “Look here,” he said, taking Úlfrún’s elbow. He pointed to the far edge of the Scar. “It’s higher ground, yonder. The Christians can only cross two-abreast, and they have to cross up a slope. A few crossbowmen and some of Brodir’s trusty lads with their axes could hold this bridge till the world burns!”

  “Unless they have archers,” Úlfrún replied. “With enough arrows, they could keep us pinned down until they make a bridgehead. If we can hold it with a few trusty lads, they can surely take it with a few, as well.”

  Forne, though, merely shrugged. “Then we build a mantlet or two. Let the crossbowmen draw their fire while Brodir’s lads hack through the ropes when the bridge is loaded with hymn-singers eager to meet their god.” The lean wolf-warrior craned his neck to peer over the edge of the Scar. The hiss of water greeted him, waves seething against the foot of the rocks. “That’ll slow the bastards down.”

  Brodir came to stand alongside Dísa, his bearded face tilted back to study the top of the spirit pole. “I don’t recognize him,” he said, nodding to the figure carved into the apex of the pole. Dísa followed his gaze.

  “The Hooded One,” she replied. “Herald of the Tangled God, Father Loki. He is our protector.”

  “A mite full of himself, is he?”

  Dísa smiled. “You have no idea.”

  Úlfrún spared the image atop the pole a single glance before setting out across the bridge. It swayed under the combined weight of the men filing in behind her—two abreast. Some glanced down the rocky throat of the Scar at the dark ribbon of water; others stared straight ahead, gripping the ropes with fear-whitened knuckles.

  Dísa and Brodir came last. Úlfrún wasted no time. Gone was the congeniality of the last few days; she ruled these men like the iron queen she was, self-made mistress of a roving dominion that traded in blood and death. But Dísa could sense a restless desperation running beneath her stony exterior; she’d seen its like before … in Halla. Úlfrún, like the troll-woman, was desperate to see the prophecy fulfilled.

  Dísa kept that bit of information close to her heart as she stood by, watching Úlfrún order her troops. “Forne! Send a couple of your wolf-brothers back down the trail. I want to know when the Christians are near.”

  Forne nodded, motioned to a pair of dark-eyed úlfhéðnar. The two men retraced their steps and vanished into the thinning mist. The rim of the sun had broken over the eastern horizon. Soon, it would burn away the mist to reveal the bulk of Hrafnhaugr—now just a dark silhouette looming over the peninsula.

  “Herroðr,” Úlfrún continued, “detail a few lads to survey this ravine. I want to know where a sound man could cross with little help. And be mindful of its depth. Ámundi,” she said, looking around. A rawboned berserkr stood out from the others, his wild shock of hair and his beard both a fiery red, fading to gray. “You and the others guard the high ground, here. Shields at the ready, but try to stay out of sight, for now. Don’t let one shit-heeled Christian step foot on Hrafnhaugr’s soil ere we’re ready to greet them. Understood?”

  “Aye, Jarl.”

  “Good. Forne, you and Brodir are with me. Dísa will lead the way. Curb your tempers! These Geats are not our enemies!” she warned, turning away. “Show us to your Hooded One and let’s get the fawning over with before we’re up to our arses in hymn-singers.”

  Dísa nodded. “Follow me.”

  Up they went. Thrice, the road crooked back on itself as it climbed the hill to the peninsula’s flat heights, where the earth and timber walls of Hrafnhaugr perched like an uneasy crown.

  “Good coverage from the towers.” Forne grunted. “Provided they’re well-maintained. Any rot and we might as well haul the gates open and invite the kneelers inside.”

  “Walk the circuit of the walls,” Úlfrún said. “Find me any weak points. I want to know how long we can keep the bastards out.”

  “Yes, Jarl.”

  “Find me inside when you’re done.”

  Dísa walked on in silence. Though she’d only been gone a few days, it felt like years since last she stood here, looking up at the towers flanking the always-open gate, at the smoldering brazier on the parapet between them. And at the cloaked figure standing watch—Kjartan, this time, if that be the flash of a gilt-edged mantle.

  “Who goes?” he hollered down.

  “It’s Dísa,” the girl replied. “I bring news, and visitors. Rouse the folk, Kjartan! Sound the alarm.”

  As they neared the gate, a figure shuffled from a makeshift shelter erected beneath one tower. Dísa recognized him instantly. “Jarl Hreðel,” she said.

  “Dísa?” he said. “Is that really you? Is that my boy you bring back with you? My Flóki?”

  “Come, Jarl.” Dísa gestured for him to go before her as three short horn blasts split the early morning calm. “We must see the Hooded One.”

  “Flóki?” Hreðel reached out to touch the giant, Brodir. “Is that you, boy?”

  “Nay, Jarl,” Brodir rumbled. He caught Hreðel’s hand and gently looped a massive arm around his shoulder—companionable, but as good as an iron chain. “Walk with us, and tell me of your boy. Flóki, is it?”

  “She was supposed to bring him back to me,” Hreðel muttered. “Do you know what happened to him?”

  “All will be made clear,” Brodir said.

  As the echo of the horn blasts faded, men half-clad in their war-rags piled into the streets, blades drawn. Their women appeared at their backs, clutching spear and shield, their faces pale with sudden fear. Children cried and dogs barked.

  “I did not think your people so numerous,” Úlfrún said, barely loud enough for Dísa to hear. “How many?”

  “There are just shy of five hundred Raven-Geats left,” Dísa replied. “Twenty-four families divided into, maybe, one hundred and fifty households.”

  “Women and children?”

  Dísa glanced sidelong at her and shrugged. “Enough, though our numbers dwindle each year.”

  Dísa’s name ran before them like a talisman. “She’s back!” men cried. “Dísa’s back! But where are Flóki and the others?”

  “Come! Follow! I bear ill tidings for the ears of the Hooded One,” Dísa replied to every hurled question. They ascended to the second terrace, and thence to the third, where Gautheimr squatted like a mist-wreathed giant. The longhouse’s doors stood open; light spilled out, and a cordon of the Jarl’s sworn men awaited them out front.

  White-maned Bjorn Hvítr stepped to the fore. He was resplendent in his mail hauberk, its
iron links worked with bronze wire; the spear in his hand would have taxed Dísa’s strength to lift, and his broad round shield bore the raven insignia of Hrafnhaugr. His gaze swept over Úlfrún to fix on Brodir. But when he spoke, he addressed himself to Dísa: “What goes, girl?”

  “Stand aside,” she said. “I bear news for the Hooded One.”

  “They must leave their weapons at the door, and wait for the Hooded One to grant their petition for an audience.”

  Dísa felt her choler rise. “And I said stand aside! Move, Hvítr, or I will move you!”

  Bjorn Hvítr blinked at the rancor in her voice. He looked down and saw something in her fierce gaze that gave him pause. And that mailed giant—twice her size and thrice her bulk—did as ordered. With a nod, he stepped aside and allowed them entry into Gautheimr.

  The inside of the longhouse was hot and filled with light, most of it coming from the great hearth, where a cauldron of spiced wine bubbled alongside a deer haunch, roasting on the spit. Smoke and savory spices hung in the air, competing with the reek of bodies and Grimnir’s own animal stench. The Daughters of the Raven were there, armed and ready, with Sigrún and Auða at their head. The sworn men filed in after Dísa; behind them came the men and women of Hrafnhaugr.

  Berkano sat at the foot of the steps leading to the Jarl’s chair, a lyre forgotten in her lap. She looked from the strangers who accompanied Dísa to Grimnir. And the Hooded One did not look pleased. Dísa could tell from the way he sat: legs thrown out, black-nailed hands gripping the arms of the chair, his upper body lost in shadow—save for the gleam of his eye. It burned red with hate.

  “My lord, I—”

  “Nár, little bird!” he said, his voice a harsh rasp. “I send you out to find four wayward Geats and you return with a stunted giant and some one-handed Norse harridan? What game are you playing at?”

  Dísa started to reply, but Úlfrún’s hand on her shoulder brought her up short. “Three hundred stunted giants, actually,” she said. She walked to the center of the space before the Jarl’s seat and described a slow circle, staring at the assembled Geats. Her gaze was like frosted iron, and few could meet it for long. Even Sigrún shivered and looked away. Úlfrún ended up facing the chair; raising her head, she met that glowering stare—and felt a sensation she’d long since forgotten. She felt a tremor of fear. “And we play no games, lord of Hrafnhaugr. I have more than enough men to burn this place to the ground and salt the earth with your bones, if we were enemies.”