by Terry Graves
He could not remember the last verse, but it did not matter. The orb shone again and the stars were revealed. At first, Skaði seemed surprised. She took it with reverence and held it in front of her face.
For a moment, it looked as if she was finally going to smile. Then she slapped him.
THIRTY-THREE
It was not yet dawn when Alarr entered the small shack of the forge, rubbing his hands because of the cold. Glóði was awake already, polishing a helmet with sand. The boy had grown accustomed to sleeping inside because it was warmer there than in any other place, and Alarr encouraged him so he could watch the fire during the night. He had brought him breakfast, as he used to do, and shared with him a loaf of bread and a chunk of dried meat. They ate in silence, for the boy was not talkative and Alarr had not yet woken up completely.
He had followed Ufi’s advice and had gone all over Hafgrim’s lands seeking an apprentice. As he had predicted, there were many parents keen to let their second or third son go, and many child excited about leaving their farm duties and getting closer to fire and iron. There was more money in the forge than in the grain they sowed and the craft was well respected and retained a mythical aura. Alarr had picked half a dozen candidates and made them form a line. He had placed a stub on the ground and a wasted piece of metal on top, and had asked the boys to take turns hammering it, using all their strength. Glóði had stood out from the others and so, Alarr had taken him.
Glóði was industrious and methodical, and had an eye for the details. The boy was also strong, but silent, and something in his manners made Alarr remember Kairan. He still thought about him a lot, more than he would have want to. But what was done, was done. The norns had sent him to the south instead of the north, and now his destiny was not to face the Snow Queen but to alert the king of the upcoming war. Although, if that was indeed his task, he was not making great advances. Hafgrim was a religious man. He had great respect for the gods and performed the rituals, the prayers, and the offerings even if they were absent. But he did not listen to hearsay or ill omens, and no signs in the sky would convince him that the Jötnar were preparing to march to the southlands to retrieve the pieces of stone-heart. “All this talk about magic stones and the end of the world,” he had said to him, “is a thing of the north.” And Alarr could not blame him, for half the time he did not believe Solfrid and Nefja either.
Alarr finished his bread and stood up, and started lining up the tools for the day’s work, but before he could finish it, the barking of the hounds let him know that Havard and Gudrun were outside, and soon the girl showed her head through the forge’s door.
“We’re going hunting,” she said with her characteristic half-smile. “Saw the light through the windows and thought that perhaps you’d want to join us.”
“I have to work, Lady,” Alarr replied, despite that fact that nothing would have pleased him more. “Ufi’s orders.”
There was a lot of work to take care of before the campaign. Warriors wanted their panoplies ready for combat and there were always new repairs to do, new weapons, new demands. Hafgrim’s children had taken an interest in him since the very beginning. At first, Alarr had thought it was only because he had seen the giant, but by then, he had to admit there was something else to it. Havard and Gudrun questioned him constantly: about the Fimbulvetr, about magic, about white bears and seals and trolls and elves. For their whole lives they had been nurtured in these kind lands, and the north exerted a strange fascination on them, as if it was a savage and uncivilized place. Which it sometimes was.
“Ufi works for us, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, he does,” her brother confirmed from behind her. “There’s nothing to think about, then. Consider it an order. We have brought an extra horse.”
Alarr lowered his head in acknowledgement, then threw a look at Glóði. “Can I trust you with the forge for the morning?” Glóði nodded and made a gesture with his hand, then continued polishing the helmet. “Don’t let the fire die.”
“It’s settled, then. Let’s go. Dawn is the best time of the day for hunting and, if we don’t quicken, we’ll miss it.”
Alarr knew that was true because Runa said it too. Dawn and dusk, in fact, but dawn was better; for at dusk, dangerous beasts roamed the forests and you could easily lose your quarry in the darkness. Alarr wiped away his sweat with a piece of cloth and walked outside with the siblings, and soon he was riding with them away from the settlement. They were five men in total, and the other two were Norsemen slaves of lesser standing than Alarr, who was a free man. They were on foot and took care of the hounds, carried the quiver for Havard and spare javelins for Gudrun. Alarr was the worst rider of the group, but the mare they had picked for him was docile and behaved admirably, even when he shook the rains poorly. It was not a war horse, but a beast of burden, and he thanked them in silence for it. The sky was still dark, but there was a thin line of a rosy hue over the hills and the air smelled of sap and pine needles, and of the salty scent of the sea, despite the coast being far away.
They reached the wood quickly enough. Compared to the forests that had surrounded Veraheim, the place was small and unimposing. For many generations, Hafgrim’s family had been chopping down the trees to build lodges and ships, or perhaps to sell the wood to others. Alarr could see row after row of stumps on the outskirts before they entered. But soon, the vegetation grew thick and they had to dismount. Havard took the bow, put an arrow on the string, and walked slowly at the front of the group. One of the slaves handed a javelin to Alarr.
He was not a particularly skilled hunter. He had no patience, and at the best of times he was weighty and noisy — once, Runa had even called him a “heavy-breather” — but he was not bad with the javelin and was ready to show it to them.
However, the morning was hardly productive. They walked and walked but found no trace of deer; just a rabbit that jumped, scared, in front of them and that Gudrun speared with a quick movement. Soon afterwards they had to admit that nothing else would come out of the trip and they stopped near a brook, so the hounds and the horses could drink and they could rest for a while before coming back.
“That was bad luck,” Alarr said to no one in particular. He was sitting down next to the water and had left the javelin beside him.
“You cannot win every day,” replied Havard, shrugging. He had not loosed a single arrow, but he looked happy and carefree while one of the slaves poured some ale into a cup and handed it to him. “But as long as you are alive and fighting, you’re winning. Hunting and war are essentially the same thing.”
“Are you going to join your father in the raids, Lord?” asked Alarr.
“We’re both going,” said Gudrun, and when Alarr did not reply she turned to him with her brow furrowed. “Why, you seem surprised, as if battles were fought with cocks instead of swords.”
“I don’t hold an opinion about this, Lady, but I understand perfectly why you don’t want to stay at home while others fight in your place,” he said, thinking about Gerda, and how sometimes he would win the fight and other times he would lose it. But he would never dare to cross weapons with a woman in front of anyone else, because it did not matter how it ended: if he was to win he would be despised, and if he lost, he would be mocked. There was no other way out.
Gudrun nodded, satisfied. “Will you go?”
“I will,” Alarr said, “but not to fight. Your father won’t let me.”
“Do you know how to hold a sword?” asked Havard. The question was not intended to be spiteful, but it hurt nonetheless.
“I know enough,” he replied curtly. “But it doesn’t matter. We should not go anyway.”
“We shouldn’t?”
Alarr inhaled and let the air leave his lungs slowly. “There is a war to be fought right here. The power of the Snow Queen will fade and the Jötnar will rise, and they will come to get back what they lost, and we must be ready to face them.”
There was silence, except for the chant of the bi
rds and the noise of the water against the rocks. Both Havard and Gudrun stared at him with piercing eyes. Alarr sipped from his cup.
“Why do you say such things?” said Havard.
“The red moon.” He made a gesture toward the sky and tried to remember the words of the witches. “The two ravens flying again to the world. The glittering scales the fishermen have seen under the waves. The song of winter that dies away into nothingness. The tribute that chose life over sacrifice.”
“Now you speak like a seer,” said Gudrun.
“That’s because I’m merely repeating the words of one, Lady. But your father won’t listen. Nobody listens. I don’t blame you if you don’t believe it. But I think there is no good in sailing to another land while ours is facing its doom.”
“The war of wars,” Havard spoke these words with dreamy eyes, as if he was referring to a lover, “wouldn’t that be a thing?”
“I guess it would, Lord.”
“Drop the titles, Alarr. They bore me. I’m not a lord and you’re not a slave.”
They returned to the settlement past midday. From afar, and by the size and color of the pillar of smoke that came from the forge, Alarr knew immediately that something was wrong with the fire.
“I shouldn’t have left,” he muttered, but low enough that no one could hear him. He dismounted from the mare, thanked the siblings for the morning hunt, and ran toward the shack while they galloped back to the great hall.
Glóði was at the door, and so was Ufi with his arms crossed. He must have slapped the boy in the face, for his cheek was bright red, but there were no tears in his eyes, and Alarr felt oddly proud of him.
“Leave the child alone,” he said, despite knowing that the man had finished with him already, “it is I who am to blame.”
Perhaps he should have mentioned that he was following orders from Havard and Gudrun, but he did not want to spare the blame. Ufi smiled, but there was no joy or pleasure in his face. It was the taut smile of a disciplinarian, ready to impart punishment.
“Of course you are, boy. It is wise to keep me content, did I not tell you? Well, I am not content. I’ve got a warband to arm. There is a chain here and you’re one of the weakest links. If my men don’t have proper weapons, they won’t train properly. And if they don’t train, they will die. So you see my problem here. The fire is ruined. It was burning too hot, and your apprentice threw water on the charcoal, and now the furnace is wet and it will take two or three days to put the forge back into action.”
Alarr looked at the column of smoke. It was black and thick, and that was not a good sign.
“You’re lying. Glóði is not stupid. He would never do anything of the sort.” Alarr threw a glance at Glóði, but he lowered his head and said nothing. And then, as he turned back to Ufi, he felt an outburst of rage opening its way to his temples. “You did it! You did it on purpose to blame me!”
“Are you crazy?” Ufi replied. “Do you really think I would bother with such thing? Are you calling me a liar?”
Alarr was not sure of this, but he had started going down that path and it was hard to turn around.
“I do.” The weapon-master raised a brow, but did not move, so Alarr repeated it, now yelling. “I do, yes!”
“Draw your sword, boy,” Ufi whispered. “Now.”
Alarr hesitated, but there was not much he could do. He had insulted Ufi and now he had to defend his argument in combat. If he backed out, he would be forever regarded as a coward. If he apologized, he would be seen as soft. The only thing left was to fight, and probably lose, but this realization did not decrease his anger.
He unsheathed his sword, Geri. Gerda had named it that once, like one of the twin wolves of Óðin. The name had stuck in his mind, for if his sword was named Geri, then hers was Freki, and that linked both weapons together and therefore their owners too. And what would Gerda think of him if he ended his life pointlessly at the hands of an old sword-master?
“I’m double your size,” Alarr bragged in front of Ufi, so that courage would not abandon him. “I could very well crush you with my feet.”
“You’re tall, yes. Tall and slow and stupid.” Ufi had his battered sword in his hands and there was something unnerving in the way he held it and in the way he remained immobile while Alarr moved in circles around him, seeking an opening. Neither of them had shields, which made the fight even more dangerous. Glóði observed their movements with wide eyes. “You need both your hands for the forge, but I can take one of your feet. That way you’ll stay where you belong. Or perhaps I will cut off your nose, aye? So you look nice to the ladies.”
Alarr bellowed and feinted a thrust. Ufi went backwards one step and leaned his back slightly. His sight was not focused on Alarr’s sword, but on his eyes. As if he could guess his movements; as if, somehow, they were shown in his pupils. His stance was not that of a fighter and his sword was not even raised enough to properly block an attack. Alarr realized that, even now, Ufi was not taking him seriously and that infuriated him even more.
He shouted a battle cry and lunged toward him. Ufi ducked, and when Alarr passed by him, he kicked his butt with his boot and laughed. Alarr almost fell but he managed to regain equilibrium at the last moment.
“Damn you. Is everything a joke to you?”
“Not everything,” Ufi said, still smiling. “Just you.”
He’s trying to break my concentration, Alarr concluded. And he’s succeeding.
Alarr had never been good at withstanding an insult and, so far, he had always considered it a good quality. It is pride that makes a man, as he used to say. But now, that very same pride was playing to his disadvantage. He’s much better than me; that’s a fact. But maybe there is a way to turn all that confidence against him. If he does not take me seriously and he keeps lowering his guard, I may have a chance after all.
He lunged at him again, but this time he did it just to see his reaction. Again, Ufi moved to one side, and Alarr turned around fast and thrust with his sword, but the tip missed him by a distance.
“You may have been a big thing in the shithole you come from,” said Ufi. “But it’s time you learned your place in the big scary world.”
Alarr tried a new attack and, for the third time, Ufi dodged it. He was starting to feel exhausted. The sword seemed heavier in his hand and he was breathing loudly.
Perhaps he is not only angering me, but making me tired. He took three steps back and made a twist with his wrist to see if it responded, but his arm was feeble and the movement came out clumsily. Gerda had never challenged him so much without even crossing swords with him.
By the look on his face, Ufi could very well be fixing the axis of a carriage or tending to a horse or, in sum, performing any other menial task. Nothing betrayed his calmness, except for the curve of his lip, that insidious smile Alarr wanted to erase from him once and for all.
He gathered all his strength and ran toward him. Then he moved his arm with a downward hack in an attempt to use the advantage of his height, but the sword-master was too quick: Ufi got out of the way and the tip of Alarr’s sword ended up hitting the ground. Then he stepped on the blade, and his weight forced Alarr to drop his weapon. Ufi hit him in the belly with his fist, so hard and fast it was as if it had turned into a rock; the air abandoned his lungs and he fell to his knees.
Then came the head-butt.
Alarr’s nose broke with a snap. His view grew blurry and he collapsed on the mud.
Ufi approached him slowly and pushed him with his boot so he rolled over, face upwards.
“Why don’t you kill me?” Alarr said in a tiny voice. His face was covered in blood and he could barely see, but he was sure that the weapon-master was no longer smiling.
“Because you’re not a warrior, boy. Your insults have no weight; they’re like the squeals of a pig. And there’s no glory in slaying you like a pig.” He rose up and started walking toward the great hall. “Now, get back to work!”
Alarr never sat wi
th the members of the hird at dinnertime. His place was with the other free men and, for the first time since his arrival at Hafgrim’s hall, he thanked the gods for it. His table was at the farthest end of the room, far away from the dais and the warriors, far from Havard and Gudrun. Far from Ufi. And it was far from the fire and it was darker, so his swelling face and his bloated nose were better concealed there.
Still, they noticed it quickly. It was hard not to, and it was not long before they were mocking him openly. Alarr said nothing and concentrated on his plate and on the cup of ale that, for the first time in his life, was too sour for his taste.
“Alarr the nose-bleeder,” said Loðinn, a sly man of about his age. His hair was so fair that it looked almost white, and his eyes were perpetually rimmed with red. He worked in the mill, but sometimes went hunting as well. His father had been an important man once, almost as important as Hafgrim, but he had died leaving debts and, without gold, you were nothing. Still, Loðinn had received the education of a chief. He was proficient with weapons and was proud of having a sharp tongue. “Quite a fitting name for a hero. The skalds will sing your feats in no time, Nose-bleeder.”
“You’re the one who should stop singing, Loðinn,” Alarr snapped at him, but without enthusiasm. He felt defeated, and not just because of the fight. He wanted to go back to Veraheim, to his mother, like a child.
“Don’t count on it. There’s a ring to it that I find pleasing. Nose-bleeder. Nose-bleeder.” He played with the words in his mouth, as if he was testing them.
A couple of men laughed, but Alarr said nothing else, wanting the conversation to die. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that Ufi had not played a role in extinguishing the furnace’s fire, but he had chosen not to blame Glóði either. He should not have left him in the forge alone, no matter how diligent he seemed. If Alarr had done something of the like in his father’s forge in Veraheim, he would had received a severe beating or a whipping. But Alarr was not his father.
