Ravens' Will

by Terry Graves

  RAVENS' WILL

  The Snow Queen Saga 1

  Terry Graves

  A Terry Graves Book

  Copyright © Victor Selles 2019. All rights reserved.

  This eBook was first published in 2019. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.

  https://terry-graves.com/

  Copy-Editing by Dan Coxon (http://www.momuseditorial.co.uk/)

  Cover design © Victor Selles 2019. All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Map

  Note for the reader Prologue

  Book 1: Fimbulvetr One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Book 2: Stone-heart Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Book 3: Jötunn Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Book 4: Vǫlva Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Book 5: Thrymheim Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  A cry for help

  Some final notes Glossary

  Other books by the author

  About Terry Graves

  A note for the reader

  This novel includes a glossary at the end which details all characters and locations from the novel, together with definitions. There is also a map at the beginning to help you guide yourself around Miðgarð and Jötunheim.

  -heim, from Old Norse, means “home”. So Thrymheim means “the house of Thrym” and Jötunheim means “the house of the Jötunn” (the house of the giant).

  -fell, from Old Norse, means “mountain”. So Groennfell means “the Green Mountain”.

  Also, Old Norse societies had no family names as we do, but they used patronymics instead. This means that a second person’s name indicates the first name of their father. Gerda, daughter of Hallbjorn, would introduce herself as “Gerda Hallbjornsdóttir”. Alarr, son of Jorik, would introduce himself as “Alarr Joriksson”. This traditional system is still currently in use in Iceland today.

  “His corpse lay in the bed (…) and a cricket chirped all night through. ‘He’s dead’, my mother said to the cricket, you don’t need to call to him. The ice maiden has fetched him.’ And I understood what she meant. I remembered from the winter before, when our window panes had been frozen over, that my father had shown us a figure in the frost like that of a maiden with her arms outstretched. ‘She’s probably after me’ he said in jest. And now, when he lay dead on the bed, my mother remembered this, and it occupied my thoughts also.”

  Hans Christian Andersen, The fairy tale of my life, 1855.

  To the Unknown God.

  Prologue

  They will come.

  That is what they used to say. For thousands of years, that veiled menace was in the air, lingering over celebrations and banquets, tingeing each moment of joy with a touch of sadness. The mead would go sour on their lips and the laughter would die in their throats, and each chord of the harp would carry along a discordant note.

  They will come, said Skalds and gods alike, and also those cursed with the gift of divination all across the Nine Realms. And when they do, Sköll will swallow the sun and Hati will swallow the moon, and the Fenrirwolf will break free of its chains and the Miðgarð Serpent will advance upon the land, poisoning the rivers with its venom. And in the Vigrid battlefield, they will have their final fight. And they will win.

  Age of axes, age of swords, as the Sybil’s prophecy goes.

  Her bees had tried to warn her. They had been flying in circles, buzzing uncontrollably the whole morning, as if a storm approached.

  Now they were here.

  Skaði looked over the bridge, where the battle was being bravely fought, and lost. They had come with the night, in all shapes and sizes: monstrous wolves, trolls, creatures vaguely human, crooked or beautiful. And also Jötnar, giants of fire and ice, from Útgarð and Múspelheim, from the Ironwood Forest and from the Dark Sea. They were covered in patches of moss, or in petrified skin with spikes of alabaster and granite. Sometimes their teeth were made of rock and shards of diamond. Some of them were large enough to carry whole forests on their backs.

  But this is not what was foretold. The moon still shone in the blackness above and no serpent had risen from the depths of the ocean. Surt had led them here, but these were not just the sons of Múspell. They had been joined by the sons of forests and rivers, of mountains and ponds. And the sons of frost as well.

  My fathers, my sisters, my brothers, Skaði thought.

  She drew a curved shape in the air and ice fell from her fingers and formed the limbs of a bow, a taut string, an arrow ready to be shot. She leaned one knee on the ground, held her breath and fired.

  A shard of silver like a shooting star split the night in two. Fifty paces away, one of the giants dropped the large tree he had been holding as a club, together with its roots and branches and leaves. He brought his hands to his throat, opened his mouth in a silent scream, passed across the barrier and fell over the Bifröst Bridge, which spanned the sky with Ásgarð on one end and Jötunheim on the other. Behind it, the vaporous clouds of Kerlaugar shone with a reddish glow, as if their surface had caught fire.

  There was no need for Skaði to look for another projectile, as a new arrow had already materialized out of thin air. She aimed at the center of the chest of the immense shape behind the first ranks of the army. The ribcage of the giant named Surt, which surpassed all others in size, glinted with an eerie light. Under it, she could see the mass of corpses scattered across the bridge’s floor, the shafts of broken weapons rising like wrecked bones. On top, a rider wearing a helmet of bright gold and chain mail awaited, with a spear on his right hand and an oaken shield on his left. His horse was not like any other in the world, as it stood on eight legs instead of four, neighing and showing its teeth, not a wisp of fear in it. Next to him there was another warrior, with his long mane groomed in braids, brandishing a hammer made of steel with both gloved hands. He had no armor, no shield, no helmet.

  Skaði let the string go and, a moment later, the arrow hit its target; but to no effect. Then the first man threw his spear, and its head went through the creature’s shoulder. Still, nothing seemed to harm him. Skaði felt as if her heart would stop. So great and powerful was the magic of the Jötnar that not even the dwarves’ craftsmanship could put an end to it, she concluded. All was lost, then.

  As if to honor her last thought, Surt took a step forward and squashed the warrior on his eight-legged horse with his fist. There was a deafening noise of metal clashing, of bones crushed.

  And Óðin, the father of gods, was no more.

  Something changed in the very structure of the air. The vault of heaven seemed to collapse over her.

  “All-Father,” Skaði muttered, despite not being of the blood of the Æsir.

  Another arrow turned into a new hit, but once it came into contact with the rough and dark skin of the monster, the projectile broke in ice slivers.

  The last of the Æsir, the only one standing, yelled in pure rage. He grew, d
oubled his size, then tripled it. A cut crossed his back from top to bottom and the heat of his exposed blood steamed as if he was on fire. His name was Thor, and he jumped, raised his hammer over his head, and discharged it into the creature’s chest.

  There was a blast wave, a wind of pure energy that pushed Skaði back with the strength of a whirlwind and threw her to the ground. Surt’s ribcage burst open and the thing that was his heart broke into a million pieces that jumped in all directions as burning coals, which fell to the lower realms and got lost in the night. With the force of the impact, the hammer left Thor’s hand, whooshing through the air, and disappeared as well.

  Many Jötnar fell over the warrior, eager to get even at last for all the trips he had made to Jötunheim, for the manner in which he had laughed when he spoke about giants and how they died by the hundreds under his arm. There were two ways of telling a story, any story, depending on which end you stood at. For frost giants, the warrior named Thor was a being made of nightmares. They ripped his body apart and gulped down the chunks of his corpse, something dark and shredded and no longer identifiable.

  The large creature now bent his neck backwards and roared to the night, and the army that marched with him howled and bellowed back. His chest was open and no longer had a heart, and with it his magic had been lost, but he remained very much alive. The giants advanced and the invisible foundations of the Bifröst Bridge trembled beneath their feet.

  Meanwhile, a shape rushed back. Just one. Heimdall, riding his horse, retreating.

  Skaði tautened the bow and sent a final arrow, which killed one of the fire spawn as he was raising his arms to grab the stallion’s hind legs. Heimdall reached Skaði, lifted her from the ground as if she was weightless, and seated her in the saddle, behind him. For a while, the thunderous clapping of hooves was all she could hear, as they muttered the noise of the army behind them.

  She did not dare to look back, for she knew they were too close behind, so she focused her sight on the straight, somber shapes of Himinbjörg, which began to stand out behind the veil of mist. But she still felt the breath of the Jötnar on her nape and captured the subtle scent of fresh snow and the musty odor of the caverns that lay deep down in the mountains. Smells that still reminded her of home, but that now only seemed to foretell her prompt demise and death.

  They were followed by the horde until the front doors. They crossed the opening, galloping at maximum speed into the great hall. The horse slid over the polished floor and Heimdall left the reins and jumped down, fastening and bolting the doors just before the creatures could reach them.

  He leaned his hands and forehead over the intricate decorations as if he was whispering a spell. They had been fortunate that Mjölnir had flown out of the giants’ reach, as no door could resist a single blow of Thor’s hammer, even if it was in another’s hands. Still, they were just delaying the inevitable.

  “Move,” she said. And when he had paced away from the entrance, she gently blew over the doors, and her breath turned into a gelid breeze that covered the surface in hoarfrost.

  “They won’t stand,” Heimdall said, and that much was known. Skaði noticed the wounds all over him, too many to count, too much for him to survive. “We only have a while left before they knock them down. And is it not ironic that the two of us are the last ones standing? Two traitors to their race?”

  Skaði gazed at him. Both had the palest of skins, the same shade of silver blonde hair, angled features as if they had been carved on twin blocks of pure ice. But he was of mixed breed. He had Óðin as his father but nine different mothers, each one of the giants’ race, which were the waves of the sea.

  She, on the other hand, had no excuse.

  “We should open the doors, let them get into Ásgarð and have their victory,” said Skaði with a trembling voice. “The war is already lost.”

  “We should. But we won’t.”

  He opened his hand and she gazed at the glowing stone, the size of a fist, that he held in his palm. Heimdall smiled with his golden teeth when he saw surprise painted on her face. “I caught one of the biggest shards. The others are lost. Perhaps you can work with this. You’re Jötunn too, and thus an expert in Jötnar magic.”

  She picked up the stone and felt its soft beating, the glow at its core. She had never used it like that.

  “I may try.”

  Heimdall closed his eyes, threw his sword away, and leaned against the wall. There was a great din which reverberated around the hall’s high ceilings and walls. The creatures hit and pushed and smashed at the door. The wood was splintered, the hinges combed.

  “Help me,” he asked her. “I want to die outside if I can, watching the stars, blowing Gjallarhorn.”

  Skaði held his arm and they both walked up the stairs of Himinbjörg through dark and long corridors until they reached the lookout post. She had the stone pushed against her chest along the way and felt its power growing: not a single Jötunn’s heart, but many, amalgamated by heat and pressure and solidified as the rocks that were born in the womb of the earth.

  They got out and Skaði felt the cold gale against her skin. The night’s darkness was retreating and dawn was a pale promise on the horizon. They were in a small watchtower, but even in that dim, rosy light, she could see the curvature of Bifröst, its end somewhere among the mountains of Thrym, the frozen peaks and valleys that formed Jötunheim and the human realm behind, placid and green and unaware. Over the bridge, she saw for the first time the extent of the giants’ army and her eyes darted away.

  “The final decision only concerns you,” Heimdall smiled faintly. The stars were fading and he seemed about to let go. “It is our people after all. Our family.” He held the stone wall with his hand and took the battle horn with the other. “But I know what you’re going to do.”

  “You do?”

  Heimdall nodded. “You’re going to do the only thing that you can, because it’s the fate the norns have chosen for you. You know the story as well as I. This is not the end, but the beginning of the end. So you won’t give up just yet. It ends, yes. But not like this.”

  He paused, looked at the bright line of the morning, brought the horn to his lips and blew it with his last breath. With its sound, silence fell over the nine worlds, and the giants interrupted their efforts at the door and looked up to the figure that stood on the watchtower, against the sky.

  And then Heimdall died too, over the stones of his stronghold, and the horn slid from his fingers and fell.

  A single tear trickled down Skaði’s cheek and froze midway. She cleaned it away with the back of her hand. When she raised her eyes, she saw the first snowflakes spiraling and swirling in the wind, which was getting stronger.

  The stone she held against her chest grew shinier, bright as a small sun. Heaven turned white.

  She would have no need to worry. Using the stone seemed as natural to her as breathing, and her anger grew and grew and it did the rest. Nature twisted and kneeled under her command. Serpents of blue ice rose and fell over the giant’s army, over the Bifröst Bridge, over Ásgarð, Jötunheim and Miðgarð. The fire that burned in the Múspell’s sons flickered first and then extinguished, and even the creatures of cold felt the sting of frost and experienced the pain of blood turning solid and clogging in their veins. They tried to scream but their tongues had frozen as well and were now stuck to their palates.

  The blizzard obscured the view of the world and strangled the light of the moon. A powdery darkness covered everything. It seemed as if the stars were falling to the earth, as if the roots and branches of Yggdrasil were being shaken by a cosmic windstorm.

  Then, all of a sudden, it went away. A gale howled against the walls of Himinbjörg, which were no longer of stone. The stronghold had been covered in ice, as had everything else in sight. Spikes rose grandiose into the heavens, forming new towers and structures, beautiful and terrible.

  Skaði dropped the stone heart and collapsed, and the light of the object faded and died
.

  “And so the Fimbulvetr began,” said the old woman. “The Great Cold.”

  “Ásgarð is frozen,” the little girl whispered, and tried to imagine how the place would look. Glaðsheim, the golden shields that hung over the great hall of Valhalla, the fields of Thrudvang, all covered under snow and ice. It was easy to picture all these things next to the hearth, with her nose warm and sweat on her cheeks. The scariest of tales felt safe with a fire burning gaily in front of you and your mother not far away, peeking through the window.

  She did not like her grandma much — she snored at night and sometimes smelled foul, like turnip which had been boiled for too long — but she sure loved the stories she told them, tales about trolls and elves and mighty warriors that did not seem like tales at all.

  Then, the little girl realized something, and asked: “And what of the gods?”

  “Nobody knows,” the old woman replied. She had small black eyes, which shone like tourmaline beads. “But I doubt they’re dead. They’re proud people and they were defeated, so perhaps they went into hiding until they regain their powers again.”

  The small boy frowned. “I thought Thor and Óðin were invincible.”

  “That’s what they thought as well,” said the old woman, and laughed. “Anyway, you asked me for a reason why we close the shutters, and the reason is for little boys and girls like you to never peer outside on winter nights. Especially if, as today, snow is falling heavily from the sky with that hideous silver glint on it. Because if you do, the Snow Queen may come and take you.”

  “Don’t scare the children,” said their mother. “Or they’ll never go to sleep.”

  The old woman pressed her lips shut and looked at her daughter with rancor. The wrinkles on her face deepened.