Ravens' Will

by Terry Graves

  That day, the trolls did not leave the forest either. It became thicker, a mass of greenery, and soon Gerda could barely see the sky through the canopy of branches. Still, she noticed that they were fast, covering much more terrain than she could have hoped to when she was traveling with Sigrún and Runa. It was as if they were riding on the back of Sleipnir, Óðin's eight-legged horse. She told this to Drizzle when the trollkona came back from scouting in an attempt to start a conversation with her.

  “We don’t like the forest, we are the forest,” she replied, plainly. “So when we move, the forest moves with us.”

  It was far from a coherent explanation, but Gerda deduced there was some sort of magic at play. She wondered what would happen if trolls were to war, what kind of advantage they would have in a battle if they could move so hastily from one patch of vegetation to the next. She hoped that she would never find out.

  “Is the Snow Queen truly dead?” Gerda insisted. “How could you possibly know?”

  “The North Wind knows, and he’s telling everyone who listens. He was forced to help an arrow from Laerad find its way through her ice-frozen heart. Besides, she’s not a queen, and never was.” Drizzle repeated the same words the other troll had said to Gerda. “Trolls have a different queen.”

  “Who’s your queen?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Gerda was baffled by Drizzle's answer, and the trollkona sighed. She scratched her forehead, with hands like raven’s claws, before speaking again.

  “For a long time, Queen Angrboða ruled in Ironwood. She was our mother, the mother of all the trolls and the vargs. Mother of monsters, they called her, as she also gave birth to the Fenrirwolf, to the Great Serpent, and to the lady that rules in the Underworld. But some years ago, right before the Fimbulvetr started, Angrboða lost her crown to a frost giant and never returned. The giant wanted to rule us, but he was not a queen, so we mocked him endlessly; and then, he left.”

  “He was not a…” Gerda stopped midsentence. It was difficult to understand Drizzle’s thoughts. Not only did she speak with a thick accent, but half of what she said didn’t make much sense to her. “He would have been your king, wouldn’t he?”

  “A king…” she snorted, showing a smile like an open wound, “what a stupid notion. Females give birth. Everything in earth is born from a female, part of her. Males are like rain. They sprinkle a little bit and their job is done.”

  “But if you did not sanction the king, why not choose a new queen?”

  “We cannot. The giant left, and the crown is now missing, and without a crown there is no queen.”

  “That’s all you need? Just the crown?”

  “What’s with all the questions?” Drizzle asked back. “How do you know who’s queen if she is not wearing the crown?”

  Gerda went mute. There was something scratching at the back of her mind. She took a peek over her shoulder, at the burlap sack she was still carrying on her back. When they seized her, the trolls had taken everything from her: the weapons, the clothes, and the food. They had left Gerda with barely nothing, and the sack looked empty, or almost empty. But it still weighed a bit, so, despite the fact that she could not look at it, she knew that not everything was gone.

  “I want to ask you one last thing, and then I promise I will be done,” Gerda’s voice trembled. “But I have to know what the Ironwood’s crown looks like.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  The bays were empty and the air smelled like burnt wood and salt. The sky had the color of a storm about to break. There were few people on the wharfs, and not a single ship. After three days, all that was left of the vessels were half a dozen charred hulls, like whale skeletons stranded on a beach. The few figureheads of sea-dragons that had been spared the flames had been piled up next to them, along with broken oars and pieces from the masts.

  Alarr smelled the fire and thought about Veraheim and his father and the pyre on which his corpse had burnt.

  This, whatever it is, is my fault too.

  “Damn you, Ægir, you and your nine daughters,” Ingolf muttered. He picked up one of the colorful shields that had decorated the longships, now blackened and ruined, and threw it into the water with a bellow.

  They had left for Heiðirsalr with the first light of the morning. Ingolf and Eigil had joined Hafgrim, Ufi the sword-master, and Alarr, riding their war stallions. They had spent all day traveling in silence and the vision of the wharf’s twilight had done nothing to lighten the mood. Some said that it had not been an accident. They had seen the light of a torch in the night and many had smelled the sweet scent of oil in the fire.

  Hafgrim hunkered down and threw a long glance at the pieces of timber still floating adrift over the white foam of the sea. He stayed there, staring, for a long time.

  Alarr was surprised that Hafgrim had asked him to come. He was not sure what was in his mind, if it was because of his involvement with a Jötunn at Veraheim or because of his continuous moaning about the Ragnarök. He looked around, almost expecting to see Solfrid and Nefja in one of the bays, smiling at him with their clothes covered in soot and burns and blisters on their skins. But there were only two slaves going through the scraps of wood, trying to salvage whatever they could from the wreckage.

  “We must go,” said Hafgrim. “The king is waiting.”

  King Fróði’s hall was crowded with warriors. Half a hundred at the very least, with sulky faces and arms full of golden rings. Swords were not permitted, but some had put on their chain mail and brought along their shields and helmets. They were sending a message to whomever wanted to listen. They were ready for war, and there would be war one way or another.

  No fire burned in the hall, but the room was warm. There was no food or drink either, and no one was using the tables or the benches. There would be no feast that night.

  Hafgrim’s group pushed their way through until they reached the dais. Óttar, the steward, was standing next to the king. He sent them a cold glance, daring them to take a step closer.

  Seated on the high chairs were Fróði and his wife. Wulfgar and Osten were standing on the platform too, with arms crossed and somber looks. They were two of Fróði’s oldest and most trusted warriors. Alarr had heard many stories about them, tales that even outmatched Hafgrim’s feats. They nodded at him, nonetheless, acknowledging his presence. Hafgrim nodded back.

  As if he had been waiting for his presence, King Fróði rose from his throne.

  “Who did this?” he asked, spacing each word.

  The murmurs extinguished. Nobody answered.

  “None of us could have done it,” said a man, near the back. His arms were covered with battle scars. “These are our ships, we have invested time and gold in them.”

  “The king has enemies,” Osten replied, “and gold is easily forgotten when there are promises of more gold.”

  To this, everyone started yelling at the same time. King Fróði closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he hit the table with his fist and bellowed: “Enough quarrelling!”

  There was silence again. Alarr fixed his eyes on the hay-covered floor. Where would Solfrid and Nefja be now? He imagined them in the small hut with the starving dog, sharing a meal and celebrating.

  “Lord, if I may,” said Hafgrim. King Fróði’s preying eyes gazed at him. “There is word of fires in Thrym, as if an army was on the move. Perhaps we should discuss this instead of throwing blame at each other.”

  Some warriors in the hall — those who lived up north — had seen them too, during the clear nights, coming nonstop since the change of weather. At first, they had disregarded them as the occasional fires lit by the Sami people traveling with their reindeer herds. But they were too many, displayed in perfectly organized rows, and they had unnerved them.

  “Winter after winter,” Hafgrim quoted the Sybil’s prophecy, “with no summer in between. And when the winter is over, Lord, the world will fall into ruin, shields will clash, and the greatest battle of all will begin. Age
of axes, age of swords.”

  “Old crones’ tales.” Osten dismissed his words with a smirk and a hand gesture.

  “You may think so. But the winter is over, and you have all heard of movement in the mountains, as if the Jötnar tribes were regrouping. And yesterday morning a traveler came to my hall. He claimed he had seen troll footprints in the mud, a band of no less than twenty in the path of Raudvidr.”

  Alarr raised his head. He remembered the traveler — an old man with an oak stick and a battered hat who had climbed down from the hills and approached the hall with the first light of the morning — but he had not heard about this. If Óðin had not been defeated and gone, Alarr would have thought that the old man was the All-Father himself disguised as a traveler. Stirring the cauldron, as his mother used to say. The old man had asked for water and bread and he had received ale and meat instead. Grateful, he had praised Hafgrim’s hospitality and he had continued his journey, further south.

  “Nobody has seen a troll in Raudvidr in years.”

  “That is precisely my point.”

  “So what do you suggest, Hafgrim?” asked Fróði. “Speak plainly.”

  “To seize this opportunity to protect our boundaries. We’ve gathered here from every quarter.” Hafgrim raised his voice and turned to address the men of the hall. “When I look around I see the best warriors of my time. I see Tori, who fought and killed five enemies singlehandedly. I see Áleifr, who jumped into a shield wall and broke it by himself. We’re strong here together, as brothers. I know the weather has changed and summer seems to have arrived earlier this year. But I say we wait, just for a while. See if there is some menace coming from Jötunheim, if trees in Ironwood are coming down and the wind is carrying the cries of battle horns.”

  If he was expecting cheers or acknowledgment, he received none, but cold stares. Fróði and Óttar exchanged glances, as if Hafgrim’s speech confirmed some secret suspicion. The king had sat once again on his throne and his hands were pressing hard against the wooden arms. This is not good, Alarr thought.

  “Hafgrim, my friend.” It was Óttar who replied. “You’re a very religious man. In any age but this, that would honor you. But is a long time since Óðin heard men’s prayers. The gods are either mute or deaf, or they no longer care. The old races have been retreating, leaving Miðgarð to be ruled by the sons of men, the rightful owners. The giant you fought was the last of a kind. I’m afraid the era of heroes is over.”

  Óttar’s words carried weight. He was the king’s steward, and therefore his most trusted man. Hafgrim looked around for support, but people were retreating, forming a circle around them.

  This is not good at all.

  “Did you burn the longships?” Fróði whispered with a roughed voice. “My ships?”

  “I did not, Lord.”

  “Do you know who did it?”

  There was a slight hesitation and Alarr felt a shiver going down his spine. He can't possibly know. It’s impossible.

  “I don’t,” said Hafgrim. “But I see that there is something in your mind, Lord, so please tell me what it is.”

  At first, King Fróði did not speak. Alarr noticed that Ingolf, Eigil, and Ufi had been moving slowly to form a defensive wall around Hagfrim, covering all the possible angles of attack. Alarr looked around for signs of weapons in the room. There were no spears or swords, but knives could be hidden anywhere. And the men were wearing armor.

  “This was never an assembly. It was a trial since the very beginning.”

  “This is not a trial, no. If it was there would be a jury, but there’s only me. And I would declare you an outlaw, you and all the men who have come with you today.” Fróði said these words as if he was spitting them.

  “I beg you to reconsider. You’re seeing shadows, Lord.”

  “You’re the one who’s jumping at shadows!" he roared. “You came from the north changed, Hafgrim. That is a fact. Rumors about you have been spreading. The smith you brought from Veraheim has been poisoning your ears with stories and omens. One frost giant does not make an army, and the giant is dead.”

  “If it was a giant at all…” said Wulfgar, but Fróði cut him short with a gesture.

  “I think you burned the ships… so we remain here. Fighting shadows, as you say,” he concluded. He leaned back on the throne. “But I can’t prove it.”

  Alarr held his breath. After the fight with Ufi his nose was slowly healing, but still hurt and looked bloated and crooked, and he had problems breathing at night. He was no hero, and now it was clear as well that he was a coward, afraid of dying and not willing to take responsibility for his actions. He had been part of this, as he had been part of the giant’s attack on Veraheim. And now, with the hall in complete silence, he felt the urge to open his mouth and speak, to tell the truth for once. But he did not dare. If he declared any involvement in the plot, however small it may have been, he would never leave the hall alive.

  “I’ve reached a decision,” said King Fróði. “In three days, we will gather a warband and we will march east. The chieftains from the steppes have been amassing treasure for many seasons now and it’s time to show them who’s who. We’ll use one sixth of this year’s loot to rebuild the fleet during next winter.”

  It was within the king’s prerogative to decide where the campaign was to be held, but the warriors that crowded the hall were not happy. King Fróði gave them no time to air their complaints. He leaned over the table and addressed Hafgrim again.

  “Now, concerning you. I’m convinced you want to contribute to the venture. A third of your gains seems fair, as long as you agree willingly. Not only your gains, mind you, but also the gains of the warriors from your hird. All of them must come.” Hafgrim clenched his teeth and nodded. That meant that his lands would be unprotected during the summer and whoever wanted them could simply come and take them. Fróði seemed pleased at last, so he went on. “However, as you seem to be so concerned about the welfare of Heiðirsalr and I don’t want you to be distracted while we’re away, I will allow you to gather a force to patrol my lands in our absence and protect us from trolls and elves. This force will be composed of twelve men, and not a single more. They could kill all the giants they find while we’re away.”

  He was mocking Hafgrim, and some of the men laughed. But Alarr looked around and noticed many others who did not seem so satisfied with the agreement. Still, Hafgrim nodded respectfully.

  “Great! The matter is settled at last. Open the mead and light a damn fire!” Fróði ordered the thralls with a snap of his fingers. “There’s not much to celebrate tonight, but at least we will go to bed with a warm belly and a faint head.”

  That seemed to be the cue. The ambience relaxed slightly and men began to talk with each other. Osten jumped down from the dais and patted Ingolf on the shoulder. Alarr sighed in relief but none of the others seemed fooled by the change of mood in the hall.

  Eigil threw a gaze at some men that were watching them warily from a distance. “If we die now, nobody will grieve much for us, Lord.”

  “Go outside and saddle up the horses,” Hafgrim whispered to Ufi. “We’re leaving.”

  They left Heiðirsalr and rode under the cover of darkness, and they only stopped when they were sure that they were not being followed. They dismounted and pulled the horses behind the protection of the sparse trees that grew at the side of the road.

  “I ask permission to slit the neck of the Smith.” Ingolf grabbed Alarr’s neck and pushed him. He tried to resist, but he was too fast and he fell to the ground.

  “I won’t grant it.”

  “But it’s his fault!”

  Hafgrim shrugged. “It is, yes. But suppose he’s right about everything and you kill him. Then you will look like a fool.”

  “I will take the risk.”

  But he did not.

  Alarr got up and shook the dust from his cloak. “I’m sorry,” he said to Hafgrim.

  “Don’t be. I did myself no favors by talking as
I did before. I thought some of the men would listen, and perhaps some have. It is fate, and it does not concern me any longer. What’s done is done.”

  “About the fire…” Alarr began.

  “What’s done is done,” Hafgrim insisted. “We will rest here for a short while. Then we’ll ride back home. There are many preparations to make and not much time.”

  They did not build a fire, so they had a cold dinner while night thickened around them. From time to time their eyes scanned the road, searching for horsemen in pursuit.

  “So we’re poor now, I guess,” said Eigil and tore off a piece of dry meat.

  “We are,” said Ufi. “And we’re riding east where there is only grass and ugly whores, and we will come back even poorer.”

  “You will not ride with us, Ufi. You will stay. You need to train the twelve men King Fróði so graciously granted me to travel the place killing giants.”

  “I’m not in the mood for more jesting,” Ufi growled.

  Hafgrim did not reply to this. He was being serious.

  “What made you change your mind, Lord?” Alarr asked him.

  He had tried to convince Hafgrim since they had first reached Heiðirsalr. He had talked about the end of the Fimbulvetr, about the giant forces behind Thrym, and about the red moon until his mouth had gotten dry and his throat sore. But Hafgrim had never listened before. Now summer had come and there were fires weaving down the mountain slopes, and perhaps an old man with a walking stick and a hat had seen some tracks in the mud with long clawed toes. But none of this was proof enough to risk everything.

  “I dreamed of a raven.” Hafgrim’s eyes were lost in the stars. “It spoke to me.”