Ravens' Will

by Terry Graves

  You have underestimated him. Of course he has his own agents surrounding Fróði! The man is not as thick as he looks. Oh, Lord Óðin, help me! Now he has leverage and power over me.

  Óttar waved his hand, as if this was unimportant, but he was sweating. He won’t say a word. If I fall, he will too.

  “She’s merely a pastime, Lord,” he lied, “though I must admit it is a rather pleasant one. You know what I seek most, and that is land and the privileges that come with it.”

  Wulfgar shrugged. The point had been made. He raised his hand and the gyrfalcon extended its wings and took flight. It glided over the fields, a white arrow speckled with gray. Óttar knew it was time for him to go. He opened his mouth to say farewell and return to Heiðirsalr.

  But then, a black shadow plunged from the sky.

  It hit the gyrfalcon in the middle of its flight and they fell together, spiraling out of control, until they hit the ground, not a hundred feet away from where they were. Astrið and Asnir ran toward them, and Wulfgar swore and spurred on his stallion. Óttar followed him right behind on his mare.

  The shadow was a raven, large and as blue as Wulfgar’s horse, with eyes that shone with a golden glint. The gyrfalcon was dead under the bird’s claws, with its neck twisted.

  Óttar had never heard of a raven killing a gyr before. Such a pity, he thought, but deep down he was satisfied with Wulfgar’s loss. It seemed the animal had also been harmed in the fall. It stumbled away clumsily, dragging one of its wings over the grass. One of the warriors held his spear and approached the bird.

  “No!” Wulfgar shouted, and pulled the man away before he had the chance to kill it. He had a crazy expression. “It must mean something! What does it mean?”

  “It is not a good omen, Father,” said Astrið. “Ravens are Óðin’s birds. He is not pleased.”

  She threw Óttar a look of hatred, as if she was holding him responsible. Asnir kneeled in front of the raven, picked it up and wrapped it in her cape. The bird did not fight against her.

  “The witches will know,” said Wulfgar in a low voice. His eyes were lost in the gyrfalcon’s corpse and the puddle of blood that was forming under it.

  “The witches? What witches?” Óttar asked.

  Nobody answered.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Runa. A word.” Gerda held Gyllir’s reins to make him stop. Runa was fiddling with her knife and a piece of wood. She grunted. They were in the middle of a copse with nothing to see except for pinecones and brambles and the perennial layer of snow. Gerda knew that the girl did not want to talk, but Sigrún had gone scouting and she was determined to seize the opportunity. “This is important.”

  “What is?” Runa threw whatever she was carving into the brushwood. She had not recovered from the fever. Gerda could see it in the eerie glint of her eyes.

  “I want to talk about what happened yesterday. To be sure that you’re alright.”

  “I am.”

  “You were about to kiss a troll. That doesn’t seem alright to me.”

  “It did not look like that. It was some sort of spell…” Runa was making a tremendous effort to explain herself. “I would prefer not to talk further about this.”

  Gerda had come back to the lake to take a good look at the creature. She had felt curious, scared, and concerned, and she had never seen a troll before, but she had heard tales about the fossegrim. Trolls were her father’s favorite subject, because they were fun to describe. All trolls — perhaps not so much water trolls as forest trolls — were big, smelly, and stupid. So Gerda had stared at the creature for a long time, fascinated by its pallid, miserable corpse, not able to turn her eyes away. Perhaps there was some magic in it still.

  “Was he handsome?” she snapped. “We are friends, you can tell me.”

  “We are, yes. And never before you have asked me about such things or in such terms. It doesn’t matter how he was. It was false.”

  “No, it wasn’t. Not to you at the time.” Gerda paused, undecided, not knowing how to bring up the subject tactfully, but finally she went on: “Please, don’t think of me as shallow. I woke up that morning and didn’t see you. I went out and followed your tracks in the snow until I reached the lake. The horse ran past me first, so I knew that something bad was happening. I saw you on the shore, standing in front of that horrible thing. And it struck me. You smiled. You looked happy. I’ve never seen you like that before.”

  “And you won’t see it again.”

  “Happy?”

  “Deluded, dazzled. Fooled.”

  “It is not a sign of debility to fancy a boy, Runa.”

  “Neither a requisite for fulfilment in life,” she insisted. “I hope you’re not implying I should marry a troll. We are friends, but there are limits to what one can say without offence.”

  “That is not what I’m saying at all,” said Gerda, “but it is hard to speak when you’re being so defensive.”

  “Then say it plainly and let’s settle this once and forever.”

  Gerda tried to look at Runa in the same way others might. The scars crossed the left side of her face in thick threads of white and disappeared under the neck of her shirt. Her left eyebrow was half-gone, her left eye was discolored. The left side of her lip was paralyzed and curved slightly downward, as if pulled down by a hook. Runa tried to cover all this with a tuft of hair, and the right side was beautiful enough, which somehow made matters worse. They had been together for so long that Gerda had become oblivious to all this. She worked out her next words with care.

  “Forget about the troll, I beg you,” she said, grabbing her hands. “What I’m trying to say is that you can have love and a family. There’s no reason why you should renounce these things. You’re far from the first with a war wound.”

  “You kissed a boy once and that makes you an expert.” Runa looked up and sighed loudly. “By the gods, you’re annoying. And an idiot. I have love, and I have a family. As do you. My family is Kai, and Alarr, and yourself, and we love each other. Whether I fancy a boy, or a girl, or a troll,” she grinned here, just a bit, but enough to carry her point across, “is my concern and no one else’s. Now, stop worrying about me. Kai is the one we should hold in our minds.”

  “I’m thinking about Kai,” said Gerda, and her face darkened. The mountain range seemed as far away as on the day they had started the journey. “I just want you to be happy, that’s all.”

  “I’m afraid none of us is entitled to be happy in a long time.” Runa squeezed Gerda’s hands gently, closing the matter. “Let me look after Gyllir for a while.”

  Gerda picked up the reins and saw Sigrún descending back down the slope she had climbed to get a better view of their surroundings.

  “There’s a small village up north, a couple of hours from here,” Sigrún said. “We will stop to replenish our supplies and, hopefully, we will manage to spend the night there.”

  It was not a village, just ten huts huddled together in the vicinity of a muddy rill. It had no stockade, no hall, no more than a couple of byres. A small terrace in the middle of the settlement served as a square. Sigrún and Gerda paced slowly into the center first, and Runa stayed a couple of steps behind, holding the horse. They waited for a long time, while a couple of dirty hens with toes missing pecked about the soil around them.

  “Should we get our presence noticed?” Gerda asked after a while. Wisps of smoke came out from the houses.

  “Oh, they’ve noticed us,” Sigrún replied. Then she raised her voice, to make it heard: “They’re peeking at us from behind the windows, thinking their curiosity is being overlooked.”

  “Should we be vigilant?” Runa whispered.

  “Always.” Sigrún grinned, not really answering the question.

  There were jangling and clattering noises in one of the houses, and a series of muttered voices followed. Then a door opened and a man came out. He was short and husky, with a thick moustache. “State your purpose, strangers!” he yelled from a safe distanc
e.

  “We’re travelers, just passing through. We want supplies, dinner, and a roof for the night.” Sigrún waited for a bit and, when she was convinced she was not going to receive an answer, she added: “We will pay.”

  The man did not seem less wary than before, but he approached them slowly. He gazed at Sigrún’s byrnie, the rounded shield, their weapons and equipment. “You look like shield-maidens.” Gerda was pleased when she heard this. She raised her shoulders, stood upright, and frowned, trying to appear fierce and dangerous. “Are you part of a hird? What king do you serve? Should we be concerned?”

  “We serve in Hafgrim’s hird, who serves King Fróði. And no, you should not. We’re just the three of us, and we only want from you what I’ve already requested. Tomorrow we will be on our way and you won’t see us ever again.”

  “Hafgrim, aye? I’ve heard of him. Some say he is descended from Óðin.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Fair enough.” The man made a gesture toward the house. “Name’s Knútr. I’m not the chieftain. There is not one here but, when in doubt, I am the one you should speak to.”

  One after another, the doors opened and people started to come out to greet them. There were about two dozen in total, men with sunken eyes and women holding the hands of malnourished children. They kept their distance, but smiled at them, and Gerda smiled back. Runa left the horse in one of the byres and Knútr led them into his house, which was warm, and pointed toward the table. They left their bags on the ground, took off their gloves, and sat around it. Until then, Gerda had not been aware of how tired she was.

  “Not much people pass through this region,” said Knútr, while his wife banked up the fire. “Winter has been bad. We don’t have much to spare.”

  “Winter has always been bad,” Sigrún replied, “and we don’t need much to be contented.”

  “There is more than enough for your dinner and to feed your horse, so ignore my husband,” said the woman. “He’s prone to forget the more basic rules of hospitality.”

  “Frída, please.” Knútr closed his eyes and raised his arms, as if he had grown tired of the nagging. But it was probably an act as, when Frída had finished serving their food and sat next to him, Knútr kissed her on the cheek and both smiled. They thanked them and ate eagerly, and after a while Knútr broke the silence to ask if there was any news they could share.

  “The same boring things are repeated everywhere,” said Sigrún with her mouth full of skause. “Dark omens, rumors about sentient ravens and wolves, sightings of gods in forests and mountains. There is also gossip about the Great Cold and when it will end. Nothing unusual, as you can see.”

  “What about the giant? The one at Veraheim.”

  “How have you heard about it?” Gerda left the spoon on the table and glared at him. Knútr shrugged.

  “How couldn’t I? Veraheim is not so far from here. And it’s a giant, after all.”

  “That’s the very reason we came,” said Sigrún, after thinking for a while. Gerda felt uneasy, but the man was not an idiot. He would have made the connection sooner or later. “He was trapped in the ice of the lake, so he was probably there since the end of the war. We had to fight him and we killed him, but at a high cost.”

  The man opened his eyes wide. “Are you speaking the truth?”

  “There is no reason for me to lie, is there?”

  “I suppose there’s not. Still, a giant.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Maybe it is indeed time for dark omens to run wildly. There is word of movement in Ironwood. The trees utter battle cries at night, so they say. And there was this shadow in the sky; I did not witness it myself, but those who did said that it came from the east, glided over the valley, and disappeared behind Thrymfell.”

  “A shadow, you say.” Sigrún came closer and leaned her elbows on her knees.

  “A bird of prey. An eagle.” Knútr’s voice had turned to a whisper. “Large enough to be Veðrfölnir.” The man leaned back in his chair and tried to make light of it. “Who knows if it is true? Anyway, you can stay at our house for the night. We will give you some food in the morning.”

  Sigrún took out some coins, but Frída held her arm. “Silver is worthless around here. We’re a day’s walk from any trade route. We would very much prefer it if you paid us in iron and steel.”

  “Frída, no,” said Knútr, but Sigrún raised her hand to request silence.

  “You want our weapons?”

  “Not as much your weapons as the arms that hold them,” said Frída.

  “Please, don’t mind my wife.” Knútr turned to her. “They won’t be up to the task and will die like the others. They’re very young still, and they come from fighting a giant. Let them be, I beg you.”

  “Pray, tell us,” said Runa, “maybe we can help.”

  Knútr sighed loudly. “There is another thing, another omen if you prefer. The dead are coming back to life and leaving their graves. And this I know for sure, for we have seen it. Spirits. Ghosts.”

  Even in plain daylight, a flash of terror filled Runa’s eyes, and Gerda felt a chill running down her spine. She glared at Knútr and tried to find any evidence of him lying, but his face was serious and his lower lip trembled. The man thought he was telling the truth.

  “You will continue,” Sigrún said, calmly, “and tell us what this means.”

  “Very well, Lady. Half a day from here there is a barrow from the time of the giants’ war. I don’t know any runes, but from what I’ve heard, seven warriors lie under the stones. I’ve lived here all my life and it never bothered us one bit. Till two winters ago, that is. At that time, I had a herd of goats, thirty heads or so, and a boy who tended to them. One night we waited for him, but he did not return. The morning after we found him next to the barrow, stiff as a stick, with a look of horror in his eyes. Blue as Hel’s skin.”

  “People die,” said Sigrún, “I see no ghost in this story yet.”

  “Please, let me continue, there is much more. From that point on, I couldn’t find a shepherd fool enough to take care of my goats, but then a wanderer came. I paid him generously so he accepted and he stayed for the winter. He had a deep voice and the goats answered to him. But one night he disappeared. You can imagine what happened the next morning, when we searched for him. He was dead, in the barrow; not a single wound on his body but the same terrified look.”

  “And still, ghosts are absent from your story.”

  “I’m getting to that part, Lady,” the man insisted. “After the second death, I would not dare to hire someone else, as if he died too it would weigh on my conscience. But then it started. Some have claimed to see a figure, all white, jumping over the roofs of the village. Sometimes he sits on the ridge of the roof and beats on either side with his heels. We’re all terrified. Many have fled and nobody takes care of the cattle or tends to the fields, and that’s the reason we’re starving and there is not much meat to share with you.”

  “Who is this figure?” asked Gerda. “Is it the man you hired?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Frída chimed in. “The answer may lie in the barrow, but no one has dared to go there since the second man died. That’s why we need your swords and your axes, for we are not warriors.”

  “If there are ghosts in the barrow indeed, then all the steel in the world won’t be of much help.” Sigrún rested her hands on the table and faced Frída. “I would suggest disinterring the corpses that rest under the mound and burning whatever’s left of them. Then send someone to throw the ashes into the sea. That’s what custom dictates in these cases.”

  “None of us will set foot in the barrow again,” said Knútr. “If these undead spirits were to go against us directly…”

  “So you want to substitute your cowardice with our courage, then. And if we end up dead or accursed… well, it was worth a try, is that it?”

  Knútr lowered his head, abashed. “I’m sorry, ladies. I do not wish you any harm. I would never forgive myself
if something happened to you. We’re asking for too much and we have nothing to offer in return, so please, forget everything I’ve told you.”

  “But there must be something we can do,” said Runa. The words came out of her lips without effort or thought. She just wanted to help, that was all. There was silence for a moment, the only sound the fire that crackled in the room.

  “We have more pressing matters to attend to,” Gerda replied at last. She sent her a meaningful glance. Runa’s carelessness had infuriated her. “We have lost enough time already.”

  “Still, we cannot turn a blind eye. We’re going to stay here until tomorrow. We can go to the mound and at least take a look. Sigrún knows how to read runes, so perhaps there’s something written that can help. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  We can die, Gerda thought, but did not say it out loud. Either Runa was right, and Gerda was being selfish, or her friend was still feverish and in shock after the grim’s attack and would sent them all to their deaths.

  “We would be very grateful if you could do just that,” said Knútr. Frída looked at them with tears of gratitude and Gerda accepted that the time to back out had passed.

  It was late afternoon when they left the house and walked toward the mound, following Knútr’s instructions. A veil of featureless clouds covered the sky, and all was dark and tinted in gloomy grays and indigos. Twilight was not far away and a soft but cold breeze howled through the hills, shaking the tall grass among the snow patches as if a lindworm was slithering its way across them.

  “I still don’t know why we are doing this. Why did you agree to it? I thought you were the sly one,” Gerda said to Sigrún. She looked then at Runa, but her friend did not reply, and Gerda turned around and sighed. “Besides, it could be a trap. They could steal our horse and strip us of our belongings while we’re away. There may be men at the tomb with sharp knives to finish the job.”

  “They know better,” Sigrún replied. “I hope.”