by Terry Graves
Ufi was relaxed, mostly amused, and that infuriated Alarr. He was a foot taller than him, and much younger, but the man was not taking him seriously.
“Don’t cross swords with him,” said Hafgrim, aware of where the conversation was leading. “Not even Óðin could make you win this fight.”
Alarr lowered his sword and turned to him. “Will I go with you on the summer raids? Will I see battle?”
“Smiths don’t go into battle,” said Hafgrim, perhaps remembering the fate of his last one. “They’re far too precious. They stay in camp and work.”
Alarr put his sword back in its sheath, sat under a willow tree, and looked at the water from the meadow, while the two older men shared the bread and cheese with him and talked about unimportant matters. They had known each other for many years and even Hafgrim, who was usually laconic, became more loquacious in Ufi’s presence.
After a day’s march, they reached Hafgrim’s lands. They were green and rich, spanning many miles, and supported a hundred men for the hird, but also plenty of slaves and cattle. There were many houses, farms, and byres scattered around the landscape and Alarr thought that, had they been closer together, it would have resemble a village the size of Veraheim. The hall was large, but not as impressive as the king’s. There was a boar skull in the gable and the roof was covered in moss. The black dragon banner waved against the blue sky. They dismounted there, and a couple of thralls rushed from the interior to take care of the horses.
“Havard and Gudrun are out hunting, Lord,” said one of them, “and Bera is tending to the distaff.”
“Call them. Call everybody. We’ll be feasting tonight.”
The sun was high in the sky, but there were some dark clouds coming fast from the north. Ufi looked at them and then lowered his head to face Alarr. “Follow me.”
They circled the hall and walked together, passed a pigsty, and reached the forge. When Ufi spoke again, he did so in a solemn tone.
“I am the weapon-master,” he said to him. “I train the men in the levy and the sons of the noblemen. Hafgrim may be your lord, but you won’t see much of him. I, on the contrary, am going to be right behind you all day, so it’s wise to keep me content. If the weapons are poor, the warriors will behave poorly, and I’ll cut a second arse-crack in your bum. Do you understand?”
“There’s not much to understand,” Alarr replied.
“Don’t be cheeky, boy. Now, get inside and tell me if there is something that you miss.”
Alarr peered inside. It was a good forge, larger than the one he had at home. There were hammers, tongs, and an anvil, and enough ingots to make weapons for a whole army. There were also many stone molds in the shape of spearheads and swords, and a big pile of logs. But the furnace was cold, and the ash in the hearth had turned into black mud.
“I know the last smith died. But where is the apprentice?” Alarr asked him. There were always at least two people in charge of a forge, a master and an apprentice, usually father and son, and the master smith taught him the secrets of the trade so they would not be lost. That was the reason blacksmithing was a business that ran in families, generation after generation.
Ufi shook his head. “There is no apprentice. He died last year. You can take a boy from the farmsteads around if you think you need one. I’m sure they will be more than eager to learn the trade.”
“It will take me a couple of days to set everything.”
“Then you’d better get started.”
The man left and Alarr was alone in the smithy. He examined the tools one by one, and started the tedious process of building a fire until it reached the right temperature. The wood was of a different kind from the one they used in Veraheim and he knew it would be some time before he mastered the process. He found a sword’s blade over a stone slate. His predecessor must have been working on it before leaving, and the blade seemed almost finished. He picked it up, looked at the iron patterns in the evening light, and concluded that the craft of the previous smith had been clearly better than his. That made him feel anxious, and got him thinking about Ufi’s threats.
“I can do this,” he said aloud, trying to convince himself. The tools were of better quality and he was a good smith and a fast learner. “I can do this.”
“You can do what?” said a voice behind him, startling Alarr. He turned around and saw a man and a woman about his age standing against the door’s jamb, and immediately recognized them as Hafgrim’s son and daughter, as they both had the same dour face and piercing eyes as their father. The man’s beard was shorter than Hafgrim’s, and his hair longer, and he was carrying a bow. The woman had a spear in her hand. They were surrounded by hounds, which jumped around and barked.
“Was the hunt satisfactory, Lord, Lady?” Alarr bowed his head.
The man waved his hand and smiled. “You will see tonight. But first, let me do the proper introductions. I am Havard Hafgrimsson, and this is my sister Gudrun.”
“By Thor, you northerners are tall,” Gudrun said, admiring Alarr, who blushed.
“You’re the one who spoke with the Jötunn, were you not?” Alarr nodded. “Then leave the forge now, come outside and tell us everything.”
Alarr threw a quick look at the fire, left the sword blade on the stone again, and followed them outside, where the sun was almost setting. They sat on the soft green grass and Alarr told the same story over again while Havard and Gudrun listened to it. A little later, the thin rain forced them to get up and run toward the hall, where the feast honoring Hafgrim’s return was about to start.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Runa did not dream of wolves anymore. No more fangs, no more tongues, no more flesh. The howling and the chasing and the eternal hunt were gone. Now the only beast in her mind was herself and she was the one who chased someone else.
And, for some reason, the prey was Gerda.
In her dream, the forest was covered in a thick unnatural fog, and Sigrún said something about this from a distance while Runa approached Gerda with a knife in her hand.
That dream scared Runa more than all the wolf packs in the world, because she could not understand why she wanted to harm her friend, and because it meant that the wolf was inside her.
And she dreamt of other things, too. Of the Snow Queen dying, her blood steaming across the ice, and of thousands of giants crossing the mountains, roaring and dressed in battle gear. Those were the kinds of dreams that spoke of future events, the ones that the spinners put in the heads of seeresses, but she chose not to believe them.
Runa woke up every morning before dawn — Sigrún shaking her, or a drop of cold water running down her neck — exhausted as if she had not sleep at all, with a dry throat because of the cold and every muscle in her body either hurting or numb.
She had tried to count the time passing since they left Veraheim, but could not remember anymore. The days were shorter and shorter, a blur of fading suns, gray skies, and morning fog. Under her boots, the layer of snow was getting thicker with every mile they walked. When awake, every time she closed her eyes, she saw the peaks of the mountains crowned with white. She did this frequently, nodding off as she walked, and her legs were so used to the strolling that they kept going as if they had a life of their own.
“What do you see?” Sigrún used to ask her on those occasions when she had fallen asleep.
“I see nothing,” Runa always replied. And Gerda, poor Gerda, looked at them as if they were hiding something from her. Which was true.
She kept thinking about what Sigrún had told her the day they spent in the cabin, which could have been two days or two weeks or two months ago. And sometimes, inevitably, she also thought about the blonde man in the pond, and the harp he held, and heard the melody of his song.
It was midafternoon, and they had stopped for the day. They spotted a cave that was empty, not more than a hole in a rocky hill, but there was no snow and it would suit them for the night. Gerda had left to fetch wood for the fire; most was wet and she had
to go far to find a place under the trees. Runa and Sigrún were alone, except for Gyllir, who was foraging grass with his snout covered in ice, and a solitary raven, perched on a tree.
“I think I’ve figured it out,” Runa said to Sigrún then. “You told me that, if we split, I would choose you over Gerda. I’m not saying that would be the thing I’d do, but I think I know why. I would follow you because I want to know the secrets of shape-swapping magic and you won’t tell me just yet, because you want me to go with you when our paths split apart.”
“Is it true? You want to know?”
Runa shrugged. Their breath steamed every time they talked. “I’ve accepted things as they are, but the world has not. I don’t have to be beautiful, but I would like to be normal.”
“Normal? Where’s the good in that?”
“It’s easy for some to say, because they don’t struggle as I do. I want life to be easy and I want the things everybody wants. I want to be happy without having to fight for it every step of the way.”
Sigrún nodded, as if she understood, but nothing else. “Life is fighting, Runa, and losing more times than not.”
“I don’t seek advice from you. Just tell me if it can be done.”
Runa peered at the valley below and noticed that Gerda was coming back. Her brownish-red hair was waving in the wind and her hands were empty. Sigrún peered at her too, and her eyes darkened. “If you desire this so much, would you take the body of your friend? She has a pretty face. It could be yours.”
“Don’t test me.”
“Would you?” Her voice had turned low and hoarse, and Runa felt a jolt in her belly. To say yes would be the simplest thing in the world. With that single word she could fade into the world and finally blend in.
She opened her lips to answer, but Gerda was already there.
“There is no dry wood. There will be no fire.” The girl collapsed between both of them, but nobody spoke and she peered at them intently. She knew important things had been spoken and she had been left out, because a thick and grave feeling still lingered in the air. Runa felt the urge to hug her, but thought about the way in which Sigrún had hugged the brigand girl and moved away from her. Gerda noticed this too, and seemed hurt.
“We will block the entrance with snow.” Sigrún examined the mouth of the cave, as if trying to decide how much time it would take. “That will keep us warm.”
They gathered snow and made a big pile in the front, tied Gyllir close by, and then crawled inside and started to block the entrance until they had made a wall. They lay for a while under the dim light that passed through the only hole they had left at the top. Sigrún was right. It was warm in there, or at least it was much warmer than outside. They were sheltered from the bite of the wind and the space was so narrow that their bodies heated it fast. They ate dried salted fish and curled up together.
Runa closed her eyes and prayed for darkness.
In the morning, they climbed the hill and jumped and jogged on the top and waited there for the sun to rise and warm their bones, but it didn’t.
“How long for the mountains?” Gerda asked.
It was the first time she had spoken for a long time. Runa gazed at them. They are nearer, she thought. They must be. But she had gotten so used to them that she was no longer sure.
“Why don’t you take out your map?” Sigrún replied. “That way, we will know.”
Gerda did it, but grudgingly. Sigrún swept the snow off a large flat rock and spread it out. Runa knew of the existence of the map, but she had never looked at it up close. There were drawings of mountains and rivers, and letters. Some of them were runes, but most were not. They looked like small worms tied together in long strings.
“We’re keeping Lyfjaberg on our left and we have not waded across the Hrith, so I think we must be somewhere around here,” she pointed with one finger toward an area where not a single thing had been drawn or described, “and if the distances have been represented accurately, which I doubt, you are still a month away from Thrymheim.”
“You mean we,” Gerda corrected her.
“You seem to forget that we’re not going to the same place. My destiny lies to the east and I won’t go with you much further now.”
“The path through Ironwood is faster,” Runa observed. She had still not made her choice and she did not want to think about what Sigrún had said. “We could save weeks if we take it.”
“I won’t go through Ironwood,” said Gerda. “My father told me not to.”
“Your father is a sensible man, then. You won’t get far if you enter the forest.”
Sigrún folded the map again, put it back inside the leather cover and handed it to Gerda. The girl gave her a defiant look. “You claim you’re a goddess. If that is true, you won’t exactly be longing for our quest’s success. If we free Kai, the Fimbulvetr will end. But if you wanted us to fail, you would have killed us by now. Instead, you’re helping us. Why? Is it because you want something from Runa? What could that possibly be? Is it because you think she can see into the future?”
Gerda’s fists were clenched. Her breath came out in rapid exhalations and her eyes glinted with fury and fear.
She knows more than she revealed, Runa found out, and she has been hiding it well all this time.
A raven glided over them and landed on a rock nearby. Runa could swear it was the same bird she had seen the afternoon before, perched on a tree. It dragged its beak against the snow and then raised its head and examined them with its golden eyes.
“It has nothing to do with your friend,” Sigrún said, and that surprised both of them. “I don’t believe in fate. If there are three spinners somewhere deciding the destiny of all of us, then no one has ever seen them, and no one will know.”
“But the Sybil’s prophecies…”
She laughed. “You don’t know a thing.”
Sigrún started walking down the hill. Runa and Gerda glanced at each other. She wanted to speak with her, but somewhere along the way, a wall had been set between them.
“What do you know that you’re not telling me?” asked Gerda.
“Nothing.” Runa’s voice sounded colder than expected. “I don’t know what she means by that.”
And it was true. Except there was something Runa was not telling her, because she did not want to hear it herself. Gerda lowered her head and passed by her, and she took Gyllir’s reins and followed them down the slope into the white fields beyond.
The raven followed them. It flew over them while they walked and stopped a stone's throw away when they rested. Perhaps it was smelling something in Gyllir’s saddlebag but, at midday, the bird’s behavior started to unnerve Runa. Later in the afternoon, they stopped next to a small creek. While Sigrún and Gerda drank the cold running water and washed their faces and hands, Runa took an arrow from her quiver and brought it to her bow.
The raven was on the branch of a nearby tree. She secured the shot slowly, tautening the string, and was about to let the projectile go when Sigrún pushed her from behind. The arrow left the bow, flew too high, and got lost into the woods. The raven cawed and took flight.
“What are you doing?”
“The bird. It has been following us the whole day.”
“Runa, that’s absurd,” said Gerda.
She looked at her as if she had lost her mind, but Runa shook her head, stubbornly. “I’m sure of it. I saw it yesterday too.”
“How can you tell one raven from another?” Gerda laughed, but it was a nervous one. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you.”
Runa ignored Gerda and turned to Sigrún.
“Why did you push me?” she asked bitterly. “Why do you care if I kill a raven or not?”
Sigrún did not reply and, after a while, Runa turned around again and started walking toward the spruce trees.
“Where are you going?”
“To retrieve the arrow,” she shouted, as loud as her damaged vocal cords allowed.
Nobody dared t
o follow her. She walked into the forest and quickly located the arrow on a mound of snow. She picked it up and confirmed that the shaft was broken. She took the head, put it back into the quiver, and sighed. When she raised her face she saw the raven again, barely four ells away, and a cold shiver ran down her spine.
“Get away, you corpse-eater,” she murmured.
To this, the raven tilted its head to one side, shook its wings a little, but went nowhere.
The next two nights proved even more miserable than the one they had spent inside the cave. They slept out in the open, at the foot of hills and under the cover of trees. They suffered the worst of the Fimbulvetr and barely slept, despite their weariness. The wind howled incessantly, the snow came in swirls and the temperature dropped.
The light sleep brought the old nightmares back. The wolves, large like vargrs, were back to finish what they started and plagued Runa again. But this time there was something else, because she also dreamt of the raven, with its eyes like drops of molten gold. And, in her dreams, both the wolves and the ravens were mere parts of the same being, and sometimes she got them mixed up.
The third night, Runa woke to the noise of muffled steps in the snow. She kept her eyes half shut but saw Sigrún slipping away from the small camp and disappearing behind a thick copse of trees. She sprung up immediately after, broke the ice from her clothes with her knife, and brushed off the pieces. Then she took her bow and followed her stealthily through the forest.
The storm had passed away, as it always did when dawn was near. Clouds were retreating and some stars were showing, and the moon was bright and shone over the valley, so Runa could see where she was walking. After a hundred paces she found Sigrún again. The raven stood on the lowest branch of a charred oak, probably hit by lightning not so long ago. The woman had kneeled and leaned against the trunk. The moon outlined her face in glistening silver. Runa crouched and crept forward to get a better view.
