Hollow Tree

by Ian Neligh

  Asmund’s father, Egil, became ever more brooding when the news had reached them. Asmund dared not speak of Sigurd or the trivial thoughts that come to children as they went through their daily rituals. Egil spent many of his waking hours in a black mood and had been quick to punish even before the news of Sigurd’s death. Afterward, Asmund thought his father’s anger became something more focused.

  One day Asmund returned home from the forest to find his father sharpening his old battle axe, Korpsvart. His hands had been unsteady and his fingers blackened from working in the cold.

  Unable to forge the words that expressed his heart, Egil had reached out to Asmund with those hands, hesitated, then drew back.

  “This will make you stronger,” he’d said, forcing the words out. “And you will need to be.”

  Delirious with heart sickness and with dark rage Asmund’s father had left, shield and battered axe strapped to his back, and never returned. He was bent on murder, and his thirst would be quenched only in death. There were no more words between father and son. Egil, Feller of Trees, known reaver of the Battle of the Bluffs, had disappeared into the gloom of the day’s end.

  Hoping his father might indeed come back, Asmund remained in their small cabin, cleaned, and went about the daily rituals of surviving. And waited. But Asmund had learned to trust his instincts at a young age and knew his father would never return.

  When he became hungry, he hunted squirrels and birds using a longbow his father had fashioned for Sigurd. And while he grew thin as winter grass, he did not die.

  The bow, called Laden, was a fine one, made from an elm stave, aged fifteen years, with a string woven of fox thistle. Asmund could only pull an arrow back to his inner elbow, for the draw weight was so great.

  His father did not make things for children in what he considered a world of men. Such pandering would only lead to weakness of the heart. Egil had known something of good bows, having seen the Terrans use them with stunning results twenty-five winters before on the blood- and gore-soaked ground of the White Bluffs, where Ingmar Truth Speaker’s head had been hewn from his neck.

  “A strong bow will punch arrows through a man. A strong archer can send arrows through shield and armor as if they were made from wind,” Egil had told Sigurd, articulating his lesson by poking Sigurd in the chest. Asmund had listened, unnoticed in the midst of his chores. He often eavesdropped on Sigurd’s lessons.

  “A bow is superior to sword or axe, boy. What good is the best sword if its wielder is cut down a half league from his enemy?”

  “None, Father,” Sigurd had said without hesitation.

  Egil, lost to his crimson memory, had nodded and added, “No sword will take down a doe for this evening’s supper either—be off.”

  Sigurd, fleet of foot, had obeyed, darting past Asmund and bumping him on his way out the door. Asmund knew he was never meant to have Sigurd’s bow. He had hoped their father would build one for him someday. When his stepbrother joined Gotthorm Gjukisson, all of the recruits had been assigned the newly minted weapons of the liberator’s army, and Laden was left behind.

  It was said Mad King Slagfid’s new army went on as far as the horizon and ground whole towns to nothing in its teeth, its bowels leaving a trail of blood and ruin. The liberator’s army never had a chance, and the lands that supplied it were punished.

  The bow was Asmund’s now, and what he lacked in power to pull the string back to his ear, he made up for in his own deadly accuracy.

  His new weapon, the crude coming-of-age sword, had no name—and it was said an unnamed thing had no power. This didn’t stop Asmund from trying to make the blade sing, even as he practiced by firelight that evening.

  The long battered blade was heavy in Asmund’s arms, and his wrists screamed with effort; yet he didn’t stop. There was no one left to teach him how to use the old sword. And as he practiced that evening to exhaustion, the mountains blew frost and cutting winds.

  Two

  It was not yet morning and his eyes opened to stare at the dark roof. Already dressed, Asmund pulled his thick lambskin boots over his feet and tied them closed with a strip of rawhide each. He then took long strips of rabbit fur and tied them carefully to the outside of his pants. There was no need to stay in the house doing nothing. Inactivity only helped the cold to better settle in the bones, and the stomach to turn on itself.

  He slipped on one of his father’s wolf-pelt jackets and grabbed Laden. He strung it by laying it between his legs, putting one over the top, and using both legs to bend the bow. With much effort, he slipped the string into the wooden notch at the top and stepped out, admiring his work.

  As an afterthought he picked up the nameless iron sword and slid it through his leather arrow carrier on his back. He shook out his father’s outdoor scarf and deftly wrapped it around his face and ears, leaving only his blue eyes peering out. Asmund grabbed a large leather satchel, with extra bowstrings and other items needed for a duration in the woods tucked inside, and slung it over his shoulder. He then made his way in the near dark of the cabin to the front door and lifted the wooden crossbar. Then, struggling, he slowly pushed the wooden door open, straining against the snow and ice piled on the other side.

  The sun was still deep behind the Järn Mountain range. The snow lit by the moon sparkled under his feet like a cloudless night sky. Asmund went into the forest in search of food. Ignoring the bending hunger, he crossed the small stream near their cabin, made silent by ice.

  Asmund spent many of his days wading through the snow, hunting, collecting wood, and being ever vigilant for Tänder the Great Bear, which was said to prowl the mountains near their home. His father, not one for children’s tales, had spoken of the beast over their nighttime meals to keep him and Sigurd aware during their forays into the forest. Tänder was not a simple animal, his father used to say, but a cunning monster hiding in the body of a bear. When Asmund’s father had been young, and before the northern town of Höga Slottet was torn from the mountainside by snow and ice, men used to hunt for the Great Bear. In those days many men calling themselves heroes had disappeared among the mountains and glaciers. Sometimes ribs were found, sometimes nothing at all.

  Asmund had never seen the Great Bear, but had on occasion found telltale signs of his passing in the nearby woods. Old trees bore witness to giant claw marks shredding the wood like so much wet meat. These signs dwarfed the tree markings of regular bears.

  Breathing through his nose so as to not freeze the spittle in his mouth, Asmund made his way deeper into the thick pine forest. Every step had to be carefully placed; silence was an egg shell that must not be broken. The noise from snow crust breaking underfoot was enough to scare away game or draw predators. Luckily this morning the snow was soft and fine. It was also deep, easily coming up to his waist in some places.

  He paused to adjust one of his snow-crusted boots, when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Readying an arrow, Asmund turned and saw a white hare scamper just out of sight. He hurried after it through the snow like someone wading through water. The rabbit moved beneath a snow-covered log and stayed still.

  Asmund was sure he hadn’t been noticed, and so he paused, slowly crouching down into a snowbank. And then he waited. The chill crept in through his clothing and made his breath turn to a mask of ice outside his scarf. He knew he’d have to move eventually. To stay still too long would cause his arms to start shaking and teeth to chattering. Then he’d be in no shape to continue his hunt.

  But Asmund had grown well weathered to the environment and could settle on the outside but let his muscles and heart pound inside, keeping him warm for a time. This trick let him remain exposed without moving even longer than his stepbrother.

  Snow began to fall again, and Asmund listened to the forest around him shift, creak, and come to life as the sun rose in the sky. A bird flew overhead, casting a shadow on the ground, but he didn’t dare look away from the fallen log.

  And just then the rabbit darted
out. Asmund pulled back the string and let his arrow fly. It shot through the air and pinned the animal to the ground, where it kicked. Asmund realized, with pleasure, he had pulled the string as far back as his shoulder. He was getting stronger.

  He got to his feet and rushed over to the rabbit, which was now still. He removed the arrow, inspected it for damage, and, satisfied, he put his breakfast in the game bag, which hung from his side.

  With the same arrow, he killed another rabbit and a red squirrel all before the sun was at its peak. Game had once been plentiful before the snows had driven most of the animals into the lowlands. With the knowledge he would eat well this day, Asmund began to make the long hike back home.

  Struggling in the snow, no longer being careful of making noise, he wondered when his feet would be big enough to fit the snowshoes his father used. The shoes, while clumsy, made traveling much easier.

  Movement caught his eye, interrupting his thoughts. He turned and spotted a raven looking down at him from an ash tree. It was huge and regarded him with a glittering eye, its head cocked to one side.

  He thought to shoot at it, but stayed his hand. Sometimes the smart black birds acted as the eyes of gods. He turned away to head back to the cabin, planning to make quick work of the first rabbit, when Asmund saw a man. Down in the valley, forging his way through the snow toward him and the cabin, the man moved as if in no hurry.

  Asmund felt his heart jump in his chest, and he almost dropped his bow. Was his father finally returning home? He started to make his way to the edge of the tree line. It had been so long since he’d spoken out loud that he wasn’t sure he still could. Then he stopped.

  The man was larger than his father, and Asmund saw he wore a tattered collection of fox skins. Behind him a half-dozen men followed with dogs. The traveler stopped and looked up at Asmund, grinning through a red beard.

  Three

  Asmund’s instincts told him to run. Something had happened and the consequences were coming due and now men were looking for him. There are always consequences. This was the first and most important lesson for those who lived among the mountains. Even from his earliest memories Asmund knew that every action was preceded by a toll. Leave a saw blade outside, and by morning next it was corroded. Fail to stoke the fire properly, it would die and you would freeze. Too much energy expended during a failed hunt could lead to exhaustion and death.

  Moving away from the party, he came back within eyesight of the cabin and saw it was surrounded by more men with dogs. They were armed with bows and axes. He stopped, crouched, and watched—thankful that he was by chance downwind from the group. The dogs smelled the air as their masters tore through his house. He wanted to yell out and stop them but knew even in the depths of his anger and frustration that it was unwise. He gritted his teeth in the cold.

  Asmund had to go. He didn’t know where—but soon the man with the red beard would be among them, and he would be found. Carefully, Asmund began crawling backward, wiping away his trail with his hands, heedless of the chill.

  With the exception of Larkshum to the south, where his father had sold lumber, Asmund had never left the mountain range. The men had, no doubt, come from the town on their way to find him. To give him time to think, afforded by the sun’s faltering heat, Asmund went west.

  He did his best to cover his progress, but this took too much energy for his empty stomach, and so he began to step along roots and behind bushes when and where possible. When he heard the sounds of the dogs, he began to run.

  Being older, Sigurd had always been the better runner. His brother, naturally fleet of foot, invariably left Asmund far behind. As he ran, Asmund imagined his brother was now before him, jumping and darting between the trees. He began to run faster. With the sounds of the unleashed dogs heavy in his ears, Asmund flew like the wind. The trees, stumps, and snowdrifts slipped past his eyes. He traversed the slippery ground like a stag.

  The one-eyed elk hunter, Viktor Holdenson, lived five leagues to the west. He decided the old storyteller might give him shelter from the strange men who now hunted him. But he had to hurry; in the dark, grown men froze solid in these woods.

  When Asmund reached a deep valley, he didn’t slow. He felt as if he were falling, occasionally only keeping upright by placing a foot in front of him. The wind burned his eyes and rushed by his ears, and his heart bounced in his chest. He knew he was going to stumble. His right foot slid on a hidden root, and Asmund tried to keep his balance with his other foot—but his momentum carried him cartwheeling forward.

  He hit the snow hard and rolled, twisting downward, choking on snow that filled his mouth. He came flailing and sliding out onto a frozen stream. His first thoughts were of the bow and whether he’d damaged it, but there was no time.

  Asmund scrambled to his feet and saw a large black hound coming down the slope for him. It drove toward him through the snow with single-minded purpose. As fast as a hummingbird, Asmund took the bow off his shoulder, notched an arrow, and let fly. Behind the twanging string, he saw the arrow hit the animal in the eye, stopping it in its tracks, mere feet away.

  He thought to retrieve the arrow, as he had only a precious few, but decided against it. The other dogs were almost on him. Asmund put the bow back onto his shoulder and noted in a dazed way that one of his fingers on his right hand was pointing in the wrong direction. It was his small finger; he made a fist and it didn’t respond.

  Not knowing what he could do about it, he began running again. They were almost on him.

  Four

  Despite his will to live, Asmund grew to understand the dogs would catch him. Coming in low, at his legs, he would be taken to the ground and torn apart by their wet teeth. He didn’t want to die, but his mind was too practical to see any other outcome. He’d been the hunter too often to have illusions of the prey escaping.

  Tired beyond words, Asmund used his remaining strength to climb a high stone ridge. But his luck changed with the weather.

  While he scampered to the top, the wind picked up and the darkening sky grew an unearthly black. As fast as he could Asmund climbed down from the ridge to the other side, his hope renewed. He sprinted head first into the thick forest at its base, no longer running from the dogs but from the sky.

  On a slight slope he found a large tree, which sheltered him from the coming wind and ice. He began to dig in the snow, at times using the iron sword to make faster work of it. He had burrowed in up to his waist when the storm hit.

  The screeching wind took the forest by surprise, snapping off limbs and splintering bark with snow and hail. Working furiously to get his legs in too, he continued to dig until completely submerged. Ignoring the feeling of suffocation, Asmund began to open up the space under the snow to comfortably fit his body. Making a shelter was an old trick used by woodsmen caught in the elements.

  Asmund, exhausted by the exertion, continued to dig until he could sit upright in the modest snow cave’s rear. He then used the sword to punch a small hole in the ceiling for air and blocked the entrance with his leather satchel. Getting as comfortable as he could, he stared in the thin light at his damaged right hand. There were certain injuries that he knew how to deal with and treat. He’d never broken a finger before, and his experience came up short.

  Carefully he secured a strip of long binding leather from his bag. Cutting it in half with his gutting knife, he planned to use it to tie his damaged finger to its healthy neighbor.

  Then, without giving himself another moment to contemplate, he forced the finger back into position. The crunch and pop were followed by a blinding jolt of pain that cleared all rational thought from his head. It faded by degrees, and when Asmund could, he tied it to his other finger.

  Outside he heard the sky and winds ravage the earth. He got comfortable and waited. His shelter slowly warmed with his body heat and he fell asleep. As he often did, Asmund dreamed.

  Five

  Herlock Hammerson, slayer of giants, once went to sleep in his summer huntin
g lodge by a great fire, his magical bow, Song, in his lap, his fearsome axe, Grindwielder, in his belt. Like the stars in the sky, they were his guides in the world of men.

  When he awoke the next day, the world was in darkness. He couldn’t see anything. Axe and bow both missing, Herlock Hammerson feared he’d been struck blind, but as he reached around him he felt only walls compressing him from all sides.

  Hammerson struggled and fought and began to climb between the two walls. He soon felt as if he’d come to a forest of dead trees and, not wanting to go unarmed, broke free a massive branch with his great strength. The world of darkness shook and trembled. Feeling better now that he was armed, he named his new weapon Kvist and used it to dig through the walls, which shook furiously.

  Soon he saw light, and he climbed through the wall, weapon in hand, to find himself emerging from the chest of Stone Thrower the Great Giant.

  “You’ve killed me,” the giant lamented as Herlock Hammerson climbed into the sunlight. “I tried to eat you and hid your weapons in the Earth where you’ll never find them. But you’ve stolen my rib and dug free.”

  Herlock Hammerson hefted his new weapon. “You have angered me, and now I will steal your breast bone for my shield and your arm for my bow.”

  And these new weapons were just as powerful as Song and Grindwielder for the giant killer as he made his way from the sunny and green forests of the giants, back to the realm of man.

  Six

  Asmund woke unable to catch his breath in the dark, panic gripping his heart. He reached around him in the snow cave until he found the sword, which he used to unplug the hole in the ceiling of his shelter. A single eye of sunlight streamed in. He then removed the satchel from the entrance and cleared it so that cool air began to blow again.