Twilight of the Gods

by Scott Oden

  “Grimnir,” Father Nikulas replied.

  “The Hooded One,” Konraðr whispered. “He is here. Your saint’s captor, her skrælingr—”

  “Impossible!”

  Konraðr drank the concoction Nikulas offered him, grimacing. “Are not all things possible under heaven? We face not only this heathen taint, my good priest, but also a cursed son of Cain. God watches.” Konraðr handed the cup back and rose to his feet. He made the sign of the Cross. “The Almighty tests our hearts and our souls ere he allows Saint Teodor’s sword to be revealed to us. We must prove ourselves worthy!”

  For a moment, Nikulas’s faith lagged. If half of what he’d read as a young monk was true—and he more than any would never dare accuse Our Lady of Kincora of so base a sin as lying—this sudden revelation was not so much a test of faith as a warning not to test God’s good will. “How? How will we do this?”

  The lord of Skara cocked his head to one side, adopting what had become to Nikulas a familiar stance—that of a man listening to his demons. Slowly, Konraðr nodded. “Yes. That is what we must do.”

  “My lord?”

  Nikulas saw flames kindled deep in the albino’s eerie eyes as he turned his head toward him. “God demands a sacrifice. A night-skulking son of Cain…”

  * * *

  BEHIND THE WALLS OF HRAFNHAUGR, the mood was subdued. There was no feasting, no merriment; the songs men sang were dirges for the dead, and they drank to forget rather than to buoy their tempers. Under the eaves of Gautheimr, muttered voices accompanied the meat and ale. They raised their drinking horns to Jarl Hreðel, praised Bjorn Svarti for his quick wit, and thence sought their beds—or else the silent companionship of their kin.

  Úlfrún walked the circuit of the walls. It was the eve of battle. She could taste the coming blood and slaughter on the night breeze—a coppery tang that reached into her soul, taunting with promises of a gift denied. On these nights, surrounded by a host willing to die for her, she nevertheless felt alone. A chill no wolf fur or bear skin could abate seeped into her limbs. Old wounds ached. She massaged her hand where flesh met iron …

  She runs. Her breath steams in the cold air as she pants from exertion. Fear hammers through her brain as she draws up, but she knows she cannot stop. Behind her, she hears the crunch of hobnailed boots, the sound of pursuit. The girl runs. Snow swirls down, through drifting smoke. She runs, and she calls upon the Gods for succor. “Help me!” she cries.

  One god answers.

  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 low-brimmed hat. A single malevolent eye gleams from the shadow.

  “Niðingr,” the stranger says in a voice colder and deeper than a chasm of ice. “The Grey Wanderer, I am; the Raven-God; Lord of the Gallows; the shield-worshipped kinsman of the Æsir. Why do you call upon me?”

  “Help,” she says, choking on her fear. “Help Mama and my old da! Men … men have come! Men with axes!”

  “They, too, call upon me. Why should I choose you over them? They offer me gold and blood. What do you offer me, little worm?”

  The girl is silent. Then, “Save them. Please! I’ll do anything you ask!”

  The sky ripples and burns with green fire.

  “Then you will serve me.” The stranger raises his head to look at the eerie lights of heaven. “Without question. I have a task for you. When it is done, you’ll be free. Serve me and I will spare your kin. Or refuse, I care not. But if you refuse your kin will die and you will die, and your name will be lost until the breaking of the world. Decide.”

  “I will serve you,” she says, her voice quavering. “You have my word.”

  The stranger smiles, then. There is no humor, no warmth. “I have no need for your word, niðingr. Give me your hand, instead.”

  His touch is like ice, but the kiss of his axe-blade is colder still.

  The girl screams …

  Laughter drew Úlfrún from her reverie. She looked up and saw the light of a fire on the second terrace. It was in the lee of the Raven Stone, and around it sat a few of her lads and a few Geats. Auða and another Daughter of the Raven, Rannveig, drank from flasks and diced with Herroðr, while Forne regaled dark-haired Laufeya with tales of his home in Tróndheimr, on the Norse coast. Bear-like Brodir dozed by the fire, and across from him sat Bjorn Hvítr, drinking ale from a horn and staring thoughtfully into the fire’s heart.

  Herroðr caught sight of her and waved her over. “Make a space, make a space,” he said. Auða slid closer to Herroðr, and Úlfrún took the proffered seat. “How fares the world tonight, my Jarl?”

  She could tell Herroðr was in his cups, but she offered no reproach. Merely a smile and a wink. “It is cold as a witch’s tits and full of cursed hymn-singers,” she said. Bjorn Hvítr stirred at this and passed his ale-horn to her.

  She tossed back half the horn’s contents and handed it back to him with a murmur of thanks, then wiped her lips on the sleeve of her good arm. “What is the game, and what are the stakes?”

  Herroðr picked up the dice. They rattled in his palm. “High roll wins, best two out of three,” he said. “And winner takes his pick.”

  “Or her pick,” Auða said, elbowing him in the ribs.

  “Why not winner takes all?” Úlfrún glanced from Auða to Rannveig. Both women turned scarlet, but Auða met her gaze with a wolfish smile.

  “I like that better,” she said. Forne glanced their way, eyebrows raised, but Laufeya grabbed his chin in her fingers and returned his attention to her. Even Bjorn Hvítr chuckled.

  Though among friends, Úlfrún felt her melancholy deepen. Their lives were like flickers of a candle’s flame to her. Soon they would drift away. Forne would find his way into the dour girl’s sleeping furs, while lusty Herroðr would surely make off with both Raven Daughters. Brodir—who was the most even-tempered man she’d met in her many years—would sleep here, under the stars, and dream of a home long since turned to ash by the dynastic wars of the Norse. And what of her? A part of her thought to take Bjorn Hvítr by the hand and lead him away, to spend herself before the spear-shattering on the morrow—to remind herself what it is she fights for. But that’s not what she wanted. Úlfrún wanted to crawl into the big man’s arms and fall asleep, and sleep so deep and so soundly not even her dreams could find her.

  Her dreams were thorns. Constant reminders of the life she’d left behind, of the life she might have lived had she not made her oath to the Grey Wanderer. She dreamed of her mama and her old da, who never saw her again after that night; of her brothers and sisters, who mourned her as one who’d died. She dreamed of the husband she’d never love, of the children she’d never bear, the grandchildren she’d never see. Thorns, every one. Pricking her, reaching beneath the flesh to pierce what remained of her soul.

  No, Úlfrún reckoned. No, she would not sleep this night, either. She’d merely doze, quiet and alone and as lightly as a cat. That would keep her mind from wandering down the paths of memory. And, upon waking, she would be rested enough to kill.

  A flicker of movement caught her eye. Across the fire, over the heads of Forne and Laufeya, Úlfrún saw the Hooded One emerge from the shadows, Dísa Dagrúnsdottir in his wake. They slipped through the postern gate, which yet stood ajar. “Ymir’s blood,” Úlfrún said. “Is there no one on guard, this night?”

  “The Hooded One wanted it left open,” Rannveig said. She sat with her leg touching Herroðr’s thigh, and Auða, who sleeked herself like a cat in heat, added: “Besides, we discovered the hymn-singers can’t fly.”

  Herroðr and Forne howled with laughter; Rannveig buried her face in Herroðr’s shoulder as Bjorn Hvítr shook his head, a broad grin on his craggy face. Brodir stirred, chuckled in his sleep. And even Laufeya—dour Laufeya—cracked a rare and radiant smile.

  “But they can swim,” Úlfrún replied. She rose and went to the gate. The steep trail, a mere shadow in the darkness,
wound down the side of the bluff to where a ramshackle dock extended into the star-flecked breast of Lake Vänern. “Why would he want it left open? What are they on about?”

  Auða came up behind her. “With the Hooded One, who can say?”

  Úlfrún followed the path down to the water. Though she could not see far into the night, her ears picked up the faint clack and hiss of oars in their locks. “Curious. Is there anything on the far bank?”

  “Aye,” Auða replied. “A beach and a trail leading inland, to where the Hooded One dwells.”

  “Gautheimr is not his home?”

  “Gautheimr?” Auða shook her head. “No, for as long as I’ve been alive he’s dwelt apart from us. The priestess—Dísa, now, and old Kolgríma before her—acts as intermediary. Our folk can go from cradle to grave and never lay eyes on the lord of our lands. We gave offerings to him through Kolgríma, a bauble here, a bit of mead there, and wrote out our grievances. He answered through Kolgríma. Whatever else can be said of him, the Hooded One is not a harsh lord, and he has kept us safe from the Nailed God’s folk.”

  “Until now,” Úlfrún said.

  Auða sucked her teeth. “Aye, until now.”

  “I would see this lair of his,” Úlfrún said. “Do you know the way?”

  Auða, though, begged off. “Hard blows have taught me not to meddle in his affairs. But look here. Yonder is the Leidarstjarna, the Guiding Star.” She pointed to a bright star in the Northern sky. “Keep the bow under her…”

  Úlfrún held up her iron hand.

  “Bollocks,” Auða muttered. She chewed her lip. “Right. Get in. I’ll row you across, but I’m not waiting around.”

  * * *

  ROCKS SCRAPED THE HULL OF the feræringr as Grimnir drove the boat ashore with one last surge of the oars. He’d said nothing on the journey across Skærvík, and Dísa had been glad for the silence. She could see the lights of the Crusader camp gleaming across the water, and its nearness to the borders of Grimnir’s land worried her.

  “Will Halla be safe with that lot lurking about?” Dísa nodded in the direction of the glow, some miles distant.

  Grimnir spared it half a glance. He’d stripped off his mask and headdress and left them on the boat’s rowing bench as he sprang for the shore. Dísa followed. “Halla?” he said. “She’ll not let herself get taken in by the likes of them. Leg it, little bird! We’ve not got all night!”

  They ran. Dísa found herself not even winded as they reached the boundary stone a quarter of an hour later; nor did they pause before descending into the hollow where the longhouse lay, dark and ominously quiet. But halfway down the trail to the bog, Grimnir drew up. His spine bent double, he snuffled along the ground like a hunting wolf. His good eye blazed like an ember in the darkness.

  “Nár!” he hissed. “I know that stench!”

  Dísa heard the rasp of steel as he drew his seax.

  Around them, the woods bristled with unseen menace. They went warily, Dísa watching the trail at their back. Nothing stopped them from reaching the corduroy of logs that crossed the bog, or from gaining the base of the stairs leading to the longhouse doors. A greenish glow descended from the heavens as the eerie northern lights kindled, swirling curtains that flickered and undulated. By that thinnest of lights, Dísa could see a familiar silhouette waiting at the head of the stairs.

  “Halla,” she said, and made to move past Grimnir.

  His arm blocked her; his growled curse caused her hackles to rise.

  “What is it?”

  “Not Halla,” he snarled. Dísa felt waves of hate radiating from him—red wrath like the coals of a forge. The figure did not move. Grimnir reached the top of the steps and came abreast of it. His black-nailed hand clenched and unclenched in an unconscious desire to kill. He reached out with his blade hand, tapped the figure on the shoulder with the flat of his seax. Steel scraped and rang as from a boulder.

  Dísa saw it clearly for the first time: a stone effigy, standing facing the east, flinching; its eyes were averted, and it held one arm high and crooked as though fending off an attack. Its other hand showed fingers splayed. It was not Halla, true, but once it had been.

  Dísa reeled as though someone had punched her in the gut. She fell to her knees. Grimnir circled the stone troll-woman. He snarled something in the tongue of his people, a curse or a prayer, she could not say; he sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his blade hand.

  “What … What was she doing outside?” Dísa said. Grimnir looked as though he wanted to stoop and stab and kill; she could see him unleashing a string of oaths, invoking forces best not mentioned in the dark and lonely places of the world. She could see him embarking on a new journey of vengeance.

  But he swore nothing. It took untold force of will, but he merely ducked his head, spat, and turned away. “Off your knees, wretch,” he growled, sheathing his seax. “We don’t have much time.”

  “Are we just going to leave her?” Tears dampened Dísa’s cheeks. More so than Hreðel, and even more than Flóki, this death pierced her soul. She’d had little kindness shown to her in her life, but this woman—though she was neither mortal nor human—had shown her just that: kindness. Genuine warmth. “That’s not right!”

  Grimnir stopped. He stood a moment, his spine rigid, and then turned back to her. When he spoke, his voice bore the sibilance of a serpent. “Right? What would you do, little fool? Cart her back to the boat? Haul her across Skærvík and set her up next to your precious Raven Stone? Faugh!” Grimnir caught her by the nape of the neck and hauled her to her feet. “More than six hundred years, she’s dwelled on this land! Now she’ll stand here till the world breaks…”

  Grimnir trailed off. Sharp-eyed, he saw something on the ground at her feet that should not have been there. Chestnuts. Four of them. He crouched and gathered them up in his palm. Each one bore a mark, a rune.

  “What?” Dísa said. “What is it?”

  Grimnir shook the chestnuts, wondering what they meant. Halla had left them, he was sure of it. But why? “Ansuz,” he muttered, flicking the chestnut bearing the letter A over. Another bore the letter I. “Isaz. And a pair of Naudiz.” Meaning two with the letter N scratched on them. A-I-N-N? That made no sense.

  Grimnir’s eyes narrowed. He flicked one of the chestnuts around, spelling out a new word: N-A-I-N. Náinn? Now that was a name he knew. A memory welled up from the unplumbed depths of Grimnir’s past. The Ash-Road. Two hundred years ago. A struggle, steel-biting and shield-breaking between the worlds:

  The glow in Náli’s eyes | was like forge-gledes,

  As bloody revenge | for his brothers burned deep;

  Under the ash he waited | and gathered his strength,

  His teeth he gnashed | and his breath was venom.

  “No,” Grimnir hissed. “That beardling wretch died.”

  “What did you find?” Dísa leaned over where she could see what it was he was doing.

  Grimnir clenched his fist over the chestnuts and stood, tucking them inside his mail. “Get on! Grab what you need and let’s get back. I’ll have to sort out this Witch-man of yours on my own.”

  * * *

  INSIDE, THE LONGHOUSE’S FIRE PIT was nearly cold. Dísa stirred it, digging deep to find the few embers remaining. They flared to life as the air hit them and by the resulting glow she looked around the great room. Nothing was amiss. There was no sign of a struggle. The only thing out of place was a chair by the door and a horn cup beside it.

  “She had a visitor,” Dísa said.

  Grimnir glanced sidelong at the chair. She thought he would descend upon it with the same fury he’d shown outside, snuffling the air and revealing clues she could not fathom. But to her dismay, he merely curled his lip into a sneer of contempt—as though he knew already who the culprit was—and passed through the room. Dísa did not follow.

  She stood in the center of the room and described a slow circle; with each step she tried to gather the edges of her thoughts and emotions. D
ísa reckoned she’d never return here again. The place’s heart had been cut out, turned to stone. Without Halla … the girl swore. Why so maudlin? In a matter of days none of this would matter.

  In a matter of days, the world would end—or be forever changed.

  Dísa found an old sack made from thrice-stitched leather, and into it she shoved an extra gambeson, tools for repairing mail, whetstones, and a few odds and ends that might come in handy after a battle: Halla’s sewing kit, herbs, jars of unguents and oils, linen bandages, a jar of cobwebs. Among the detritus, she found an old shawl of Halla’s. This, Dísa folded carefully and placed inside her mail.

  That sack, plus a couple of axes, a sheathed sword, two spears, and another shield, she dragged out to the portico. She piled it together, turned back to the door, and nearly came out of her skin when a voice hailed her from the darkness.

  “What goes, Dísa?”

  The girl whirled, her hand falling to the hilt of her seax, as Úlfrún came into view, stepping around the stone figure that had been Halla. A frown creased the older woman’s forehead. “What is this place?”

  “How…? Did you follow us?” Dísa said. She risked a glance over her shoulder; saw no sign of Grimnir. “You can’t be here! You have to go!”

  “It’s not safe, not this far from the walls.” She brushed past Dísa and peered through the open door. “And when one of the Cross-men’s patrols stumble across this—and they will—you don’t want them to find you here.” A low whistle escaped Úlfrún’s lips as she glimpsed the hoard of coin and plate, the cast-off weapons and armor, the tapestries and trophies. “Ymir’s blood! Where did all this come from?”

  “Please,” Dísa replied. “You have to go.”

  “I’m not afraid of your Hooded One,” Úlfrún said. “He can’t hurt me.”

  “Then you’re a precious little fool, if you believe that.”

  Dísa stiffened at the harsh and grating voice rising from behind her. She closed her eyes, shook her head, and then turned. Inside, cloaked in shadows not entirely natural, Grimnir sat on his throne-like chair.