by Terry Graves
She thought that she was going to burn to ashes, but then she felt a gust of wind in her face. The fire went out. It vanished in a blink, as if it had never been there. When she dared to look again, the lake was still ice, as solid as it had been the previous morning and the day before.
She waited for a bit, hoping for something to happen, but it didn’t.
“It didn’t work.” She had failed despite her efforts. No matter how much she wished for something, she could not make a change in the world. “I’m sorry.”
Fyrnir did not say a word. He had closed his eyes and the lake was dark again. Perhaps he had gone back to sleep, as he was before they met him. Perhaps he needed to dream one last time of the lands of Jötunheim. Dream until morning, when men would finally come with spears and everything would be over.
There was nothing more she could do, so Gerda turned around and walked silently away.
But with the first step, she heard a small crack.
Under her feet, Gerda saw the smallest fracture, just a dent in the surface. But it grew and formed a line that went many paces across to join another. Then they divided into four, and the four became ten, and ten became a hundred, until all Gerda could see was this cobweb all around her. The eerie blue light returned. The ice was collapsing.
She knew the dangers of the freezing water, how it would numb her limbs and fill her lungs and would kill her before she even realized it.
So she ran.
She fled across the lake and the fractures seemed to pursue her, larger and larger, white over pallid azure, beautiful drawings more dangerous than swords or arrows. She was about to reach the shore when she heard the racket of an earthquake behind her. Gerda fell to the ground and turned around just in time to see Fyrnir freeing himself from his prison, his arms rising into the air, the impossible size of his chest emerging in a rain of water and ice-shards.
The giant stood in the middle of the lake, breathing heavily, for a long time.
Gerda wished Alarr had kept his promise and was now with her. He remembered all those war stories about humans bravely killing Jötnar, and she wondered if that was even possible. It was not only a matter of scale. This was no less than a god, and the mere view of this creature from another time, of his shape against the sky, filled her with horror and fascination.
Fyrnir gazed at the stars and smiled. The crown was still on his forehead. He paced in her direction, shattering ice chunks with every new step, and stopped in front of Gerda.
“Thank you, little girl.” His voice resonated across the valley like a roll of thunder. He leaned over Gerda, and his beard, thick like a leafy tree, crowned over her head. Not even jumping could she have reached his knee.
“It had to be done. Now give me the crown and return to the mountains,” said Gerda. “Before the king’s men spot you.”
But the giant did not move. He remained still, sniffing the night air.
“What is that?” he asked.
“What is what?”
“That… smell.”
Gerda sensed nothing, except for the resin of the pine trees and the rotten leaves. Even the horrid stench of the burning flowers had vanished. And why did it matter anyway? He was free at last, to run to the mountains, to return to his home before spring ended. She did not understand.
“You should go,” she insisted. The bluish beam of his eyes was making her feel lightheaded. The giant sniffed again and his nostrils contracted.
He raised his head and started to walk toward Veraheim.
“What are you doing? It’s not that way. Stop! Stop this instant!”
Fyrnir ignored her. He walked into the forest, knocking down trees in his path, and she kept screaming behind him in a vain attempt to attract his attention. He did not wanted to listen. The consequences of what she had done hit her for the first time.
I have to do something, I have to stop this.
Nothing was yet definitive, there was still time to fix things. But she could not see how and her thoughts were too convoluted to have meaning, just a whirl of images of chaos and destruction. She raced but could not keep up with his pace. She screamed and shouted but he did not bother to answer. And in that manner, they both got closer and closer to Veraheim.
The forest opened and Gerda saw the lights of the first shacks. She was way behind by then, panting. Her hair was full of pine needles, her body covered in bruises and cuts from the branches and the bramble thorns. The giant stopped to sniff again. By now, some people were coming outside and Gerda heard the first screams.
It was over now. She would never convince them that he was harmless, that he did not intend to cause mischief. She should had been more cautious. She should be with Kai now, both young, both — perhaps — in love. What would happened from that point on, Gerda did not know.
Four men left one of the houses. They had picked up axes and sticks and were running toward Fyrnir, instead of away. How was that even possible? Where had that courage come from, how had it filled the hearts of those who had been just peasants and fishermen a minute ago?
And then, under the moonlight, Gerda saw something more horrible than she could have ever imagined.
The giant picked up one of the shapes and brought it to his open mouth.
Gerda closed her eyes. But still, she had to listen to it.
I would make it right, she kept repeating to herself. I would make it right.
Gerda drew her sword. Her eyes were blurry with tears. She felt small, insignificant, betrayed. She cried to the black sky and ran toward Fyrnir, brandishing her weapon, feeling its weight drawing her arms down.
The blade hit the giant’s calf and bounced off. The force made her lose her grip and the sword flew away. The giant smacked her without looking back, perhaps not even realizing who she was.
A disconnected thought came to Gerda’s mind at the exact moment that she felt the blow. Past the ploughlands of Veraheim, the river’s stream split into a dozen brooks. A bit further along there was a series of waterfalls that ended up in a natural pool. And from the top of a rocky hillside, the water cascaded thirty feet down. On summer days, when they were younger, Gerda and the others dared one another to jump. She remembered the effect the water had over her naked body as she landed, as if it had suddenly turned solid. The burning and the itching in her skin always lasted for several hours.
What she felt when the giant smacked her was not different. It was like hitting a wall at top speed. The air left her lungs. She flew and landed on a soft snowdrift which cushioned the impact.
“A deal is a deal,” he said. “You wanted the crown, and it’s yours.”
He took if from his head and threw it to her, and she felt the blow and the weight as if it was about to crush her ribcage. The pain was unbearable but she could not scream.
And then, just like the Grendel creature being led into Hrothgar’s hall, Fyrnir turned and paced toward where the laughter and the songs could be heard.
TEN
Runa shared her hut with a family of impoverished fishermen. They were kind to her. Sometimes they shared their dinner, or offered her a mackerel or two if the day had been good enough and they had captured plenty, and Runa gave carved figurines as presents to their children in return: Vikings and bears and pigs, even gods and goddesses if she was in the mood for it.
That night, the couple and their four children were gone, perhaps attracted by the presence of the king’s warriors, who had promised stories and songs and who knew what else. Only the grandmother was inside, snoring softly in her bed, too old and too wise to be excited about those things.
The house reeked with the smell of fish, but Runa had gotten used to it. She passed the old woman and came to her corner. In Veraheim, houses did not have individual rooms as Runa had heard was the custom in bigger cities. They all slept and ate together, and there was no privacy. This bothered her a little and made her envious of Kai, who was an orphan like Runa but at least had a hut for himself. He had offered to share it with he
r many times, but she had always refused, although she was not sure why. Perhaps because she imagined it could make things complicated somehow. She had told Kai that the fishermen left the hut before the sun rose and only arrived after dusk, which was true, and that the only person she had to get along with was the old woman, who did not bother her; and this part was true as well. She did not spend too much time in there anyway.
Runa took off her bow and the quiver and left them by her bed, put her knife under her pillow — many women did, just in case — and got rid of her clothes. There was some water in a cauldron under the hearth, which she used to wash her face and her arms to expel the dead wolf’s stink from her skin. When she felt some warmth again she leaned on the bed and closed her eyes.
She tried to sleep, but could not get the brigand girl out of her mind. The scars on her face and body began to hurt, which happened every time she felt nervous or scared, as if they had never healed. The girl and the wolf got mixed in her head. She pictured a wolf cutting her father’s throat with a blade he held in a human hand. She dozed off and woke up a couple of times, pestered by all kinds of nightmares.
While she lay awake in bed, she remembered the first day her father had taken her to the forest to hunt. Runa was a child, not many seasons on her yet. He had taught her to walk noiselessly, avoiding the crunchy leaves and sticks, marching against the wind to conceal her human smell. Runa was happy to share the morning with him, which happened rarely. They had captured a rabbit, of which there were many, and her father had insisted she should be the one to kill it. Runa did not want to at first. But she did it. She pushed its head away so she could not see the creature’s eyes and then snapped its neck.
At least she had not needed seven blows to kill the damn thing.
A rabbit was not a man. But what would she have done if she had been in the brigand girl’s place, if her father had told her to do it? Was Runa any better than her? And what about her father? Had Runa’s own father not killed and raped as well during the summer raids?
That last thought scared her more than anything else, and after that she couldn’t go back to sleep. She tossed and turned in the bed for a while, then she got up. The fire had turned to ashes and the moon’s glare penetrated through the window and drew strange shapes in the interior of the hut.
Runa decided that she could not sit on her hands. She needed to speak with the girl, and try to understand. That was all she wanted; the thought of freeing her had not yet crossed her mind. She dressed again and picked up her weapons, and left the hut without making a noise. The old woman kept snoring in her pallet.
The temperature had dropped several degrees. She wrapped her cloak around her and strolled through the empty streets until she got to the market square. The moon had reached its zenith, but the celebrations had not yet ended in the great hall, where music was mixed with loud voices and strident roars and laughs.
Runa followed the cover of the houses’ shadow to conceal her presence, and swiftly walked behind the building, where there were half a dozen barns and silos for grain storage. She stopped behind a corner and peered into the street. One of Hafgrim’s men was outside a barn, holding his shield and spear. He was probably a sentry watch. That should be the place.
She knew it would be guarded, but she thought it would be by some of Sveinn’s men, who were easy to trick or avoid, and not by a properly trained warrior. If she was discovered, there was no way she would be able to escape.
Still, it should be easy enough.
Runa circled the barn by stealth. As she had figured out, no more than one man was on watch. The barn had been built in the manner of a longhouse, and the small window in the back had been left unprotected. Runa climbed the wooden wall and crawled inside.
The place was dimly lit by the fire of a torch. She slithered over on her belly and looked for the cover of a heap of hay. From her position, she peered out nervously.
There were no prisoners in there, only the brigand’s daughter in the center of the room, with her hands tied behind her back, a gag against her lips, her eyes closed, and her chest moving up and down because of her heavy breathing.
Runa frowned, confused by the image. The whole setting looked like a trap, an ambush especially designed for her. But that was not possible, she reasoned, because she had not told her intentions to anyone, neither had she planned it in advance. Then, she remembered Sveinn’s face, how he looked at the girl, and a horrible thought sprouted in her mind. Had he separated her from the others to give free rein to his lust? Her face contorted in disgust.
She was about to take out her knife from her belt when she felt the cold touch of steel against her nape. Impossible. There was barely any room between her and the wall. No one in the world was capable of startling her like that.
Apparently, there was.
“Drop it,” said someone behind her. A woman’s voice, weak and feeble.
Runa left the knife on the ground slowly and, trying to avoid any sudden movements, she did the same with the bow and quiver.
“Now walk to her.”
Runa obeyed. She walked on all fours, the tip of the weapon she could not see following close by. She threw a glance at the door. The warrior who was on watch lay on the ground, unconscious, or worse. She sit next to the brigand girl, who opened her eyes. She was terrorized, but brave enough not to cry.
“I guess I was waiting for you,” said the woman.
“No one could be expecting me here,” Runa replied.
“You were seeking revenge against the girl, I could see that in your eyes. Or maybe not revenge, but answers, perhaps meaning or purpose.”
Runa turned around and faced the woman. She had seen her before in the square, among Hafgrim’s men. She was soaked in sweat and her hair was tangled. The wound in her chest had opened and dirtied the bandages. She held the spear with trembling hands and Runa wondered if she had a chance against her, even unarmed. But, despite looking frail and dying, the woman’s eyes seemed to tell a different story. Behind the purple bags and the waxy skin, her pupils burned, very much alive.
“What are you going to do with me?” Runa asked.
“I’m going to choose, now that I have you both, which body better serves my purpose.” The woman lowered her spear and rested on the shaft, exhausted. “Both of you seem young enough and ready for combat.” She faced the brigand girl first, and added: “But you’re taller, wider, and have stronger arms. There are muscles in you, I guess, if I were to put some food on your bones. And life in the open has hardened you. You will definitely be better with the spear and the shield.”
Runa did not understand what was happening, but it seemed that she was pondering both girls’ skills, so she assumed the woman was not planning to kill them. At least, not both of them. Not straight away.
“On the other hand, your eyes are better, and so are your hands. You can see further away than many. There is a sort of… prescience in you. A gift from the gods. ” The woman made a pause to cough and cleaned her mouth with her forearm. There was fresh blood on her chin. “And you are hideous to look at, but that has its advantages, as I’m sure you’ve found out already.”
“I am daughter to the chief, and he will be looking for me,” she lied. She was not used to lying and lacked the skills Gerda had, but even with them the woman would have not cared. She laughed, and that triggered a new coughing attack, more violent than the previous one.
“You have no father nor mother,” she said when she recovered. “Which is why you came here tonight. There’s not much life left in me, so don’t try to fool me. Now whom to choose… whom to choose...”
She pronounced the last words in a playful manner, almost singing. Her gaze went from the brigand girl to Runa and back, examining their bodies. She licked her lips and Runa thought about trolls, of the kind that devoured children and Christian monks. There was gluttony in her gesture.
“I see,” the woman muttered.
The movement was so fast she did not notice i
t until the shaft of the spear had hit her on the head. Only when Runa was falling did she understand what had happened. But it was too late. Her body crumpled like a dead weight. Darkness swallowed the light.
Runa opened her eyes again with nausea pulling at the pit of her stomach. Her head hurt badly, her temples were throbbing. The hazy light burned her eyes.
She was still in the barn and she could not have been out for a long time, as the woman and the girl were still there, their figures silhouetted against the torch glow. The woman was over her and had her hands on the brigand’s daughter’s cheeks. Something was coming out from her throat and slithering its way into the girl’s mouth. A shadow, like a serpent. Runa narrowed her eyes but could not see more. It was enormous, and the woman’s mouth opened in an unnatural way. With a cracking noise, her mandible disjointed from her skull.
The whole thing lasted for a couple of painful minutes, during which Runa did not dare to move. Then the woman collapsed, either unconscious or dead. Runa waited a bit more to be sure and tried to get up. She still felt dazed, but she managed to walk behind the heap of hay to retrieve her weapons. With the knife in her hand, she felt a bit better.
She paced to the fallen woman, kicked the spear away so it was out of her reach, and put two fingers on her neck to check her pulse.
She was dead. Cold and rigid as if she had been dead for quite a while.
“Are you fine?” she said to the girl. Her eyes were red and shiny with tears. What had taken place may have been some sort of spell, she decided. Runa did not know much about those things, but the woman had not survived, so it was safe to assume that whatever magic had been at play had not worked, and her failure was Runa’s gain.
