by Terry Graves
He turned around and peered at the battle. His men were behaving bravely and, for the most part, they were winning. Hafgrim could see Sigrún fighting bandits, wave after wave, deflecting blows and burying her sword in their guts, one after another. Under her feet, the snow was tinted crimson. She had an arrow jutting out from her shoulders, weighing her down, but she did not stop. When he looked at her, images of Valkyries from the old legends sprouted into Hagfrim’s mind.
“Torgeir,” he muttered. He had just realized that, if the Veraheim’s man died during the attack, they would lose his guide. “Where is that vermin?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, go look!”
Eigil nodded and went away, with arrows flying all around him. A man armed with a club attacked Hafgrim. He dodged, grabbed him by his long beard, pushed him down, and slit his throat. He was about to shout at Sigrún, ask if she needed help, but he saw how a spear suddenly hit her back and pierced its way through the pieces of leather armor and her ribcage. It came out the other side with a spurt of blood. Sigrún gasped, but didn’t fall. Her feet remained firmly in place, anchored to the ground, more like a statue than a woman made of flesh and bone.
Now she has been done for, he thought. No one can withstand a thrust like that.
Still, the woman kept fighting as if it was nothing, and she killed two more before the forest men finally started to flee in terror. All around, they climbed down from the trees with the nervous movements of squirrels, or dropped their battered shields and ran away. Most of them, at least. Some were too wounded to escape, others had been trapped by his men.
Hafgrim sighed and leaned against a tree until the battle rush abandoned him. He did not want to admit it, but he was getting old.
Eigil came to him with Torgeir. The huntsman seemed unharmed. The filthy rat, thought Hafgrim, probably hid during the whole thing.
“Have we lost anyone?” he asked.
The warriors looked around, searching for casualties. Eikki and Hedin had perished. The former had half a dozen arrows coming out of his chest. They found the second a bit further into the forest, with his skull crushed. The blacksmith was also gone, and with him the possibility of making the most complicated repairs on their clothes and armor.
“And the woman,” said Hafgrim. “Where is she?”
“The woman is still alive,” said Sigrún, “so don’t kill me just yet.”
Sigrún had kneeled, and she was removing the rivets that fastened the spearhead with fingers stained in blood. The piece of metal fell to the ground.
“By Óðin’s beard, help her!”
“What should I do?” asked Eigil.
“Just press it,” muttered Sigrún. “And send someone to grab some cloths. I would prefer not to die.”
Eigil cried for help, then put his hands around the wound.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
Sigrún closed her eyes and let herself fall back, and the shaft of the spear went all the way through her body while she let out a horrible scream. Eigil helped her remove it completely, threw the weapon away and pressed the wound as hard as she had told him, but the blood gushed out from both sides, and Hafgrim noticed how her skin became white and life abandoned her face.
“Where are those cloths?” he roared. Another man was bringing them in. They bandaged her chest to the best of their ability, but Hafgrim knew that this was a wound that would never heal. He helped Eigil to sit her up and left her resting against a tree trunk. Sigrún kept her eyes closed, her head leaned against her shoulder. Her breath was labored and irregular. She would die soon, Hafgrim concluded, but the woman had performed such feats that day that the least he could do was not rush things. Besides, there were still some things left to do.
Hafgrim grabbed one of the prisoners by his greasy hair and got him close to his face. He was old. The hair of his beard was dark gray and his eyes were of a piercing green, as if he had been living in the forest for too long. There were few teeth in his mouth and they all seemed to be in the wrong places. The girl next to him stifled a scream. She shared his eyes, so perhaps she was his daughter.
“You killed three brave men today,” said Hafgrim. “And for what?”
“For bread,” said the man.
He lifted his chin. No hesitation, no fear. Hafgrim dropped him and the old man fell to the ground.
“If bread is what you seek, bread is what you’ll get.” Ingolf seized the man again and dragged him around. The girl tried to follow them, but a warrior hit her in the nape with the shaft of his weapon. Two more held the man in place, facing up, while Ingolf looked in a saddlebag for a piece of bread, which he stuffed into his mouth.
“Bread enough for the trip,” said Ingolf, before he lifted the axe and dropped it, beheading him with a single stroke. The head rolled down the slope. Ingolf pushed the body with his boot until it joined it at the margin of the road.
“Hang the others as a warning,” said Hafgrim.
“I know this band of highwaymen, Lord,” said Torgeir and spit in their direction. The phlegm fell over the hair of an outlaw and slipped over his forehead. He was too terrified to clean it. “They’re Valdyr’s brigands. They have been robbing throughout these trade routes for many years, and their numbers grow and grow with each new season. Some of our people have died by their hand.”
“And why are you telling me this?”
“Because…” Torgeir stopped and gulped. There was something in the manner of Ingolf, who was cleaning his axe, that he found unnerving. “Because you’re depriving my people of their vengeance. There is no glory in you hanging them, but it would be justice for us.”
Hafgrim thought about this before answering. Nothing would have pleased him more than to throw Torgeir with the lot and hang him with the others. But he had to agree. There was no glory in murdering them.
“Keep them,” he said. “We will take them with us to Veraheim as a token of goodwill for your people.”
Torgeir nodded and bowed his head.
“We still have a day or two to go,” objected Eigil. “They will slow us down and we have no provisions to spare.”
“They can go without food for a couple of days. They can walk.” Hafgrim stared at them and frowned, so the message would get across. “Those who don’t, we spare them.”
They tied their hands with the same rope they were going to use to hang them. They loaded the corpses of two men of his hird and his blacksmith on the back of the horses, and left the fallen outlaws on the spot, for the crows and the wolves to feast on.
“Can you walk?” Hafgrim asked Sigrún.
“I can ride,” she replied.
They helped her get onto a horse and renewed the march.
Nobody spoke for a good hour. The ground was frosted and crunched with the weight of their boots. Now there were only bare branches, leafless trees all around. The landscape was bleak and Hafgrim forced himself to pay attention to the wind, to the stillness in the air, to the sparse noises of the forest that seemed dead. He doubted the highwaymen would risk another ambush, but they were carrying prisoners, and had proved already that the outlaws were not very wise. But he heard nothing.
“Lighten that mood!” Eigil exclaimed. “A battle is always a good thing. It clears your senses and helps you sleep better at night. In case you want to sleep, that is.”
“Shut your trap already,” said Ingolf, “you speak such nasty things that one wonders if you grew up suckling the breast of a trolless.”
Eigil laughed. “I did, yes. And by the look of it, it was probably your mother.”
Silence again. Hafgrim waited for the noise of a weapon being unsheathed, but Ingolf laughed and, after a slight vacillation, the others followed him. No way those two were going to fight for real. They had saved one another’s life in the battlefield too many times to spill each other’s blood now.
“Tomorrow afternoon we will be in Veraheim,” said Torgeir. “And you will experience the hospitality o
f my people firsthand.”
As an answer, Hafgrim grunted. In the north, all mead seemed watered down and every village was a one-horse town, never more than a couple hundred souls ravaged by sickness and famine, with fingers and noses lost because of frostbite. There was no pride, no honor in any of those idiots, no matter how much you looked for it. Veraheim was probably no different.
SEVEN
They left with the first light, walking by the byres and the fields into the far end of the forest. The mountain range seemed almost above them, huge and ominous, but Kai knew it was a false impression, and that they were still very far away, out of reach. Groennfell stood alone, much closer, which was where they were headed. On the tree branches, snow was slowly melting away and drops of cold water fell over them like a gentle rain.
Gerda carried some provisions for the day, cured meat and bread and some cheese. There was always meat in Gerda’s pantry, which was one of the few perks a pigman’s daughter had. She was the one who had proposed this trip and was an expert in getting what she wanted. But with the giant problem being taken care of and the king’s men probably arriving at Veraheim very soon, Kai had agreed that this respite was necessary. He lived alone, and the only duties he had were those that he deemed necessary. Runa had no relatives and, though she shared a shack with half a dozen other freefolk, she was old enough to do as she pleased. Even Alarr had left his work at the forge without complaint.
It had been a while since they’d taken a trip together, with the whole day for themselves and nothing to bother about. Nothing except the shorter winters, the longer summers. Snow accumulated in dirty patches at both sides of the path, thinner than ever, and that was a cause of concern. Kai thought about the Snow Queen and shook his head in an attempt to push her image from his mind.
“Remember when we last climbed the Groenn?” he said. They had been there several times before. The view was nice and the air was pure at the top, and you could see the sheer coasts of the northern sea, the water white with foam like a rabid dog. “We were almost kids back then.”
“Yes, Runa was still scared of the forest,” joked Alarr.
“That’s not true,” said Kai.
“Yes it is,” Runa replied with her monotone voice, “and I still am. Forests are something to be scared of.”
Alarr laughed. “I’m scared of nothing.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I have ever heard.”
If those words had been spoken by Kai they would have led to a fight, but coming for Runa, Alarr just smiled. “Is it? Upon the day of my birth, the norns had already decided my fate. Whether I live to grow old or I die tomorrow, I have no say in the matter, so why bother? You cannot spend your whole life afraid of things or you won’t do anything worth remembering.”
“Perhaps the problem lies in believing in those things,” said Runa. “But I do wonder about who would benefit from a mindless warrior with no fear in his heart,” she added, ironically.
“Don’t you believe in the norns?”
“What I believe is irrelevant.” Runa stopped to pick some wisps of grass and started to braid them. “If you believe in destiny, nothing that you do deserves praise anyway because it is not your decision. Everything is written down somewhere and you’re just going along. If your life does not pertain to you, there is no glory in slaying a thousand enemies or conquering a city or sailing the seas.”
Alarr scratched his beard. “Of course there’s glory. The gods reward courage in the afterlife.”
“But the reward is established even before you’re born. What kind of system is that? What I think is most courageous is knowing this, that nothing is written down, and still overcoming your fear. And being in this forest, as I am today.”
“And we have to admit that, if the gods are no longer around, perhaps there is no Valhalla afterwards. No reward, just an infinite void. The nothingness, forever,” said Kai. He liked to side with Runa against Alarr and he did it every time he had the chance. In this case, however, he knew that their words were not true. There was still a goddess left in the world. And he was so sure because he had seen her.
“That’s coward’s talk,” said Alarr with a grunt. “Cowardice is just the result of overthinking things. Your brains get hot, then your feet get cold. You both think too much, so I suppose I won’t see the lot of you while I am feasting and battling and fucking next to Óðin.”
“Let’s say that maybe it is smarter to do most of your feasting and battling and fucking in this world,” Kai replied. “You know, just in case.”
Alarr did not answer. Runa and Kai crossed their eyes and both smiled; her face turned into an ugly smirk, which was the reason why Runa did it so rarely.
“Anyway, about those sheaths…” said Alarr. He had finally finished his swords and had been bragging about it the whole morning. How masterly he had performed the tempering; how he had peed on them to cool them immediately afterwards; how they balanced just at the height of their crossguards.
Runa and Alarr were both artisans, despite their different trades, but the conversation could not appeal less to Kai. Kai left the two of them discussing weapons and approached Gerda. His friend marched first, her eyes fixed on the path ahead, awfully quiet. “Are you alright?”
She didn’t look at him, but said: “I remember.”
“Remember what?”
“When we last climbed the Groenn,” she said with a sad smile. “We were so young. And Runa was scared of the forest. We built her a bow on the spot, so she would feel safe. We found a nice stave and I cut a lock of my hair which she worked on until she made a string. It was not a weapon, more like a toy. But it worked.”
Gerda looked over her shoulder. The girl carried a short bow with her and a quiver strapped to her back with a dozen arrows. It was not the same weapon. This one she had made it herself from the log of a saw tree with two thirds of sapwood and a third of heartwood. It was a perfect piece, strong and accurate, the envy of any hunter in Veraheim. They had offered her good money to make another, even more for the one she already had, but Runa had always refused. She had reasoned that if hunters got better tools they would make more kills per day and her own game wouldn’t be as valuable in the market.
“Mother was still alive then. And we used to get into each other’s house by walking the roofs,” said Kai, and laughed when he remembered it. The surface was always slippery because of the frozen dew drops.
“Yes, and you told me many, many lies, Kairan Jornarsson. That I remember too well.”
“I don’t remember any such thing,” he said, still laughing.
“Don’t you? Well, for starters you told me that you and I would sail in a longship and face the many perils of the sea to go visit the lands of the southerners. You promised me a white mare, of the Sleipnir’s breed, which sometimes would fly and sometimes would expel fire from its nostrils. You said we would climb the mountains and look for the rainbow and have a word with Heimdall and pat Fenrir on the snout.” Gerda paused. When she spoke again, her voice was weak. “And you promised you’ll marry me.”
Kai’s heart skipped a beat. Gerda’s face was blank, and there was nothing to hint if this was part of a joke or not. Did he want it to be a joke? It was not fair for her to tackle the topic in so light a manner, not fair at all.
It wouldn’t be an honest answer if he told her he had never thought of her that way. Many of the people they knew assumed it was a matter of time before they settled together one way or another, but when someone had asked him directly, Kai had replied that Gerda was like a much beloved sister to him, nothing more and nothing less. It was just a way to shake them off because, while they were growing up, he had also assumed they would somehow end up together. And he wanted it. But then he had seen the Snow Queen, and something — he was not even sure what it was — had changed inevitably. It was her face that he saw at night, her lips the ones he dreamt about.
“We can still do all those things,” Kai said finally, with caution.
<
br /> Gerda blushed, eager to change the topic. As if she had read his mind, she muttered: “And you told me you saw the Snow Queen one night. That was the biggest, fattest lie of all.”
Kai lowered his head and both fell silent.
The Snow Queen was perhaps the only truth among all these childish conversations. Kai had seen her through his window on a chill restless night, only a couple of months after his mother died. The first snowflakes were falling and glittered under the moonlight, like the stars of the sky, and she just stood there, on a thin blanket of virgin snow, and looked at him with eyes that were beautiful and sad at the same time.
He remembered it vividly. She had made a gesture for him to come down. Kai had hesitated. It could very well have been a trap. A hurda or a draugr, one can never be sure of these things. They may conceal their shapes under the skin of a beautiful girl and then drag you to the forest and devour you where no one can hear you scream. But if that was the case, it could be said that Kai had fallen under her spell. He had picked up his mantle, put on his boots, and gone out to confront the night. As soon as he had stepped out of the house, he had felt the cold, the wind like a sharp razor against his skin. He had taken a couple of strides and stopped, his resolution faltering. His bones had seemed brittle then, and his guts burned as if they were filled with ice. The pain was almost unbearable. The Snow Queen had covered the distance that separated them graciously, as if she was sliding over the fog instead of walking under it.
She was older than him, but not as old as his mother had been. Old enough to be a princess perhaps, but not a queen. The fur of her cape was so white, so spotless, it could not have come from any animal Kai knew. Not the winter hares that made their burrows in the snow, not the white stags that sometimes were spotted coming down the mountains; not even the skin of the white bears the merchants brought from the north could do it justice. Her hair was long and blonde, lustrous and tinged with a silverish quality that made it gleam with the moon rays.
“Oh, you poor thing. You’re so cold!” she had exclaimed. “Here, let me help you.”
