by Terry Graves
They paced toward the end. In there, the cave turned into a passage which wormed its way into the mountain’s depths. Water trickled down the walls and dripped from the stalactites, forming puddles on the floor. There were still traces of snow in the rock crevices.
It was pitch darkness ahead.
“We need a fire,” said Runa. They had not brought torches with them. They were soaking wet and they would never have been able to light them.
“There must be fire further ahead,” Sigrún replied. “Lindworms long for shiny things. They do not dwell in the dark.”
They kept walking down the passage and Runa had to put her bow away to feel the wall. The air was getting warm, more humid. At some point, she stepped on something; a skull or a ribcage, she guessed, probably disjointed and washed away in times of heavy rain, when water overflowed the lake. She had no need to know.
We’re fools, Runa thought, fools about to be slaughtered.
She wondered what Kai would have done if he had been with her. Probably he would have tried to trick the dragon to get him into a riddle contest that the beast could not win. Or he would have done as the old hero Sigurd did, and dig some trenches and wait for the creature to come out to the lake to drink and slit its belly. Kai would know what to do, Runa used to think. So many times before, the boy had been her measuring rod, her stone. He was someone she could always rely upon. But Kai was a fool too, one who had been poisoned by the frosted venom of a Jötunn and had left everything he cared about to live in an ice fortress. And more importantly: he was not there.
What would Alarr and Gerda have done? That was easy. Alarr would have jumped mindlessly into the challenge and Gerda would have tried to best him, and she would have sprinted just so she could beat her friend and die first. They were simpleminded, both of them, and that made things easier in the face of peril. Caves and galleries were made to be traversed and lindworms were meant to be slain. And if you fought well and died well then you would turn into an einherjar, and you would have the chance to fight every single day until the end of times. And somehow, Runa understood that there was solace in that promise, in the idea of an almost never-ending future not so different from the present.
But what would Runa do?
Go with the wind, as always. Do what others commanded her to do. Follow Kai, and Gerda, and Alarr to the end of the world. Follow Sigrún in a mission she did not truly believe. Do what a hideous fossegrim told her to do.
There was a dim light at the end of the passage and soon they both came out into a large chamber bored through the mountain. At one end there was a giant statue in white marble, a human figure bound to the wall. The carving was coarse, the features of his face undefined. It was the work of unskilled artisans, but at the same time they had been able to capture a hidden force in the block of stone, some energy or potency, as if the figure had been imprisoned in the rock. As if they had no need to carve the figure, but to free it. Light filtered through holes in the ceiling and created shadows under the statue’s chin and gave definition to the muscles of his shoulders.
Sigrún walked to the center of the chamber and turned around twice, gazing at the corners. There was nothing else there.
“Show yourself, you hideous beast!” she yelled, the sword shining in her hand. “We’re here to kill you!”
The echo of her voice reverberated throughout the cave. Runa counted to three. Then she counted to ten.
Something shook its leathery wings. At first, she thought it was part of the wall, a strange formation, its scales merely crevices and bumps of the mountain. But then an emerald green eye opened.
“Well, aren’t you all?”
He spoke as lindworms were supposed to speak, with sibilant words. The skalds had gotten that bit right. The creature was gripping with sharp claws to the wall, in the manner of a bat. He was larger than Runa had expected. And he was beautiful, not hideous as Sigrún had said, but slim and graceful, and when he moved under the beams of light every scale flickered slightly with the shine of a precious stone.
“It’s been long since I had guests,” the lindworm said. Runa crouched, held the bow and aimed, as she had done a million times before. The monster turned to face her. “Do you know what I’m protecting?”
“We know quite well,” Sigrún replied. She sounded confident, as if she was talking with another man and not some beast bred in the bowels of the earth.
“Then it proves that you’re not in your right minds.” The lindworm climbed down the wall, noiseless as a cat. His arms were short but muscular, more than capable of lifting his full weight. He slithered across the floor, enclosing them in a circle of scales. “There is no treasure to fetch. I was taken from my den and brought here to protect a frost giant, separated from my bed crafted from gold and jewels by the whore with the cold glare.”
He uncoiled his tail covered in short, sharp spikes, like a hawthorn tree. Despite his words, he seemed more curious than irritated. He glanced at both women with his wide green mesmerizing orbs. Those were not the eyes of a snake, but of something much more ancient and far more powerful.
We’re going to die, Runa thought. And she only hoped it would be fast, alive one moment and dead the next, without a pause to wonder how it had happened. If the time came, she would beg for those claws to tear her flesh apart and put an end to it. The lindworm could do that, if he was to show mercy. But the creature was like a cat, and cats like to play with their food.
“Skaði is dead,” said Runa, addressing the creature for the first time. She just wanted to hear her own voice, for some unfathomable reason.
The lindworm flared, and two yellowish sulfurous fumes came out from his nostrils.
“I see. So the Fimbulvetr is over.”
He seemed to ruminate this new information for a while. Runa did not understand why it mattered so much to him, and if it was hatred or relief that caused the long silence that followed. But then it came to her. The Sybil had foreseen Loki’s freedom after Fimbulvetr.
It meant that, for the first time, the lindworm could lose. He could die.
“I see,” he repeated, and there was something else in his voice this time, something vulnerable. But then he snapped and his mouth closed with a violent crack, teeth against teeth. Runa felt her last strength faltering. Her resolution became so thin that she could feel herself about to turn back and run.
“Enough words!” Sigrún bellowed. “It is time to let the swords speak.”
Runa held her breath and loosed the arrow from her bow.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Gerda counted twenty-three, not taking the wolves into account. At the beginning, one of them had carried her on his back as if she was a burlap sack, but then they had fettered her wrists and ankles and had made her walk. The ground was full of brambles and roots and she frequently fell, and every time she did, they pulled her back up again. Sometimes they also hit her in the nape with an open hand as if she was just a little girl and they were admonishing her.
Twenty-three trolls, all different but all the same. Horrid faces, feral eyes, fur, pointed ears, sharp teeth.
She tried to remember all she knew about trolls and her father’s stories came to mind. Tales that described how they ate children that got lost in the woods, how they were strong and sturdy like trees or rocks and how they were not too bright.
She went on and on, thinking, while they walked through the desolate frosted plain. Then, they went into a forest that was unfamiliar to Gerda and never left it again. It was not Ironwood, not yet. But trolls felt safer in forests and they traveled fast through them because they knew all their secrets, so they avoided paths and roads and jumped lightly from one patch of vegetation to the next. Soon they were far away from Runa and Sigrún, from the Franang and the mission, and Gerda concluded that she was not going to be rescued. She was on her own once again.
She was pushed and shoved and yelled at constantly, so she tried to remember old troll stories at first, but found them worthless. After a
while, all her thoughts went to Kai. Kairan’s smile. Kairan’s kind and comforting words. Kairan’s blue eyes. That was all there was in Gerda’s mind. And then not even that, but simply his name, repeated over and over again until it lost its meaning. Kairan, Kairan, Kairan. Somehow, the word brought her a little solace.
They finally stopped at dusk, in a small clearing among the dark, thick trees. Gerda had been traveling for weeks, but never like this. Her whole body felt as if it was about to break, as if her bones had turned into glass. Blisters had burst on the soles of her feet and she could feel the blood filling her boots. Her hands trembled. The rope was so tight that blood did not reach her fingers.
She collapsed on the ground, panting, while the chieftain barked some orders in the troll language, sounding like a wolf or a bear.
The trolls grabbed some kindling, old dry briers and broken branches, and made a pile in the center of the clearing. One of them walked by it, closed his eyes, and clasped his fingers. A rain of sparks came out of them and a fire started to burn gaily. Trolls were not frost giants, so they did not need the stone-heart to perform their spells. And they were not humans either, so the rune magic graciously granted by the Æsir did not matter to them. Magic for trolls was as natural as breathing.
They joined around in a disordered circle, sitting with their legs crossed, and ate dinner. And while they were at it, they seemed to forget about Gerda. All except for one.
One of the smallest ones, a trollkona, had her eyes fixed on her while she munched the marrow of a long bone with the help of a knife. Most of her face was hidden by her grayish-white mane, and her expression was inscrutable. Gerda avoided her gaze and looked in the opposite direction, to the dark forest and the wilderness.
The dinner lasted a long time, and when it ended, the trolls kept drinking, and brawling, and singing. They mostly chanted in a low-key murmur, a vibrating sound that was not displeasing, and while she listened to it Gerda dozed off from time to time.
She woke up when a fist hit her in the shoulder, and she saw the nasty face of Gríma inches away from her nose. He was holding a piece of meat.
“You eat! Eat!” Gríma shook the rotten meat in front of her, green and rank, and tried to push it through her pursed lips.
Gerda clenched her teeth. The smell was nauseating.
“Eat!” the troll insisted. He hit her again, but Gerda did not yield. He slapped her twice, with less enthusiasm, and threw the meat next to her.
Gerda waited until he was gone, then turned her head to one side and vomited. She had not drank in a day, so nothing but bile came out. The effort left her sweaty and even more exhausted than before, and when she turned her head again, she saw the same trollkona from the dinner, leaning against the bark of a pine tree and observing her from the shadows.
When the clouds drifted from the moon, Gerda saw her wrinkled face, gray and full of blotches. Between her eyes, her nose bent in the shape of a hook.
The trollkona came closer, dragging her tail. Her back hunched and her arms lay lifeless at her sides. Gerda thought that perhaps this was the end. The end of Kairan, of Gerda, and of their future together. She blamed Runa for this, more than Sigrún, because it did not matter how the woman had tricked her or what she had put in her head. And if Gerda survived but it was too late for Kai because of this, if there were gods still somewhere and they favored her, she would promise them that she would look for Runa when all this was over and kill her.
Gerda closed her eyes, expecting to feel the bite of sharp teeth tearing off the flesh of her belly or ripping off her arm. But nothing happened for a long time, so she opened her eyes again. She saw the trollkona. She had opened her fist and held a dozen winter berries in her palm.
“Name’s Loðinfingra,” said the trollkona. “I'm friends with the North Wind. I can make wind, and I can make fog, and I can make rain, but only sprinkles of water. So sometimes, they call me Drizzle.” She extended her arm and left the berries in Gerda’s hand and closed it kindly, or as kindly as a troll could. The girl looked at them as if she did not know what they were. Her head was wobbly and she was slower than usual, and Drizzle brought her own hand to her mouth and munched as if she was eating something. “They're food. They're good for you.”
Gerda had fetters on her wrists, but she managed to put the berries in her mouth. They were juicy and sweet.
“Water,” she said. Her throat was sore and all that came out was a low murmur.
“Is that your name, is it how they call you?” Suddenly Drizzle looked excited and her eyes flashed, as if they were both sharing something special. Water and Drizzle, two of a kind. In a different situation, perhaps Gerda would have laughed.
She shook her head. “Water,” she insisted, “to drink.”
Drizzle produced a goatskin flask from her rags and Gerda drank whatever was inside. It was not water. The liquid tasted like milk, but sourer. She kept drinking nonetheless, with deep drafts, until she quenched her thirst. She was going to thank her, but she stopped. There was nothing to be thankful for. She was a prisoner and there must be some reason why the trolls were pushing her across the land. They took the effort to carry her, so they wanted her to survive, and for that she needed food and water. Drizzle happened to be a tad brighter than the rest, and a bit kinder than Gríma.
“I'm Gerda.” Pride prevented the girl from thanking her, but she decided to tell the creature her name. “Gerda Hallbjornsdóttir.”
Drizzle nodded and smiled, revealing two rows of decaying teeth. Her stench was revolting, even worse than the smell of her father's pigs back home. It was not only sweat and dirt and excrement. It was something more deep and unnerving, a reek different from any other she had experienced before, like something rotten and brought back to life.
“Gerda,” the trollkona repeated, and when she heard her name through those bloated lips she felt a new jolt of nausea in the pit of her stomach. But at the same time, a plan began to take shape in her mind. It was still rough around the edges, but it gave her hope.
“Where are you taking me?”
“We killed a sorcerer, you see,” said Drizzle. “We wanted to know about the stone-heart. So we questioned him, but he refused to speak. We beat him good and smashed him. Zis. Zas. Zum. Until head and body went in opposite directions. But there was no stone-heart, and we cannot go to the Tröllathing with empty hands. We took the head, but the head is worthless. It has no power and it cannot speak. Then we found you, so we’re taking you instead. They don’t think much of you, but I can feel you have something with you. Not the stone-heart, but something else.”
“What is a Tröllathing?” she asked then, although she could figure out what the answer would be.
“A meeting of the trolls. They come from everywhere, from the north out of the Dumb Sea, and from Ofotansfirth, and many other places.”
That didn’t make much sense. Gerda was worthless as well. She could speak but had no power, and by the time they reached Ironwood, the only place she could think a Tröllathing could be held, she would not know where Sigrún and Runa were. It was Sigrún who had a big chunk of the stone-heart and she played with the idea of telling Drizzle where she could find them. Perhaps that would make the trolls turn back and go to Franang Falls. But that was not the right thing to do, and she knew it. Besides, there was no guarantee they would take her with them.
“And what are you going to discuss?” she asked, but Drizzle did not answer. She looked back, to the fire and the trolls, who were still drinking and dancing and singing.
“You’re beautiful. You have beautiful hair. Such red. Mine is all tangled, you see. And dull.”
“But your eyes. Your eyes are beautiful,” Gerda replied, and she was not lying. They were the color of the wilderness. “I could fix your hair, I could pull it in braids like mine. Would you like that? But for this I would need you to remove these manacles.”
Gerda held her hands in front of her and the creature seemed to give it a thought, but then sh
e shook her head.
“You’re trying to trick me, Gerda Hallbjornsdóttir, but I’m not as dumb as you think. And that is good for you, for this would not end well. You would run, and we would chase you, and find you, and kill you. And then I could take your gorgeous hair, pull it out from your scalp. I suppose that would work fine enough for me, but not so much for you.”
Gerda sighed. “I had to try.”
“You better not try anymore. Grimkell and the others would be nice with you no longer. Trust Loðinfingra.” She was pleading now, and Gerda nodded. That seemed to satisfy the trollkona. She raised her head and glanced at the moon, which was crowned with a mesmerizing silver halo. “I’ll go get a blanket for you. The night is going to be cold, you’ll see.”
Gerda woke up the next morning to a great ruckus, and through her sleep-clouded eyes she saw all the trolls rambling and going back and forth in the clearing. Her hood had gotten frozen and creaked when she turned to gaze at them. She was trying to find Drizzle, but the trollkona was not around.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, of no one in particular.
She was not expecting an answer, but one of the trolls, who was fetching his leather-lined mail coat from the ground, grunted and replied: “The frost witch is dead.”
“The Snow Queen?”
“She’s no queen, at least not to us.”
Gerda did not ask anything else. Could she really be gone? That would mean that Kai was free and he no longer needed rescuing. Or rather, it meant that Kai was now captive to whoever had murdered the queen. He could not be dead, or she would know. That was what Gerda had chosen to believe, or her life would be devoid of purpose. Either way, according to the prophecy of the Sybil, the death of Skaði marked the beginning of the end for all of them.
The morning was cold but there was something different in the air, as if the stillness she had been living through all her life was suddenly gone. The forest had awoken from its lethargy and crawled with sounds and life. The news seemed to put the trolls in a good mood. They unfettered her for a while and let her drink water from a clay vase and gave her a loaf of bread, hard and charred. And then, they broke the camp swiftly and resumed the journey.
