by Scott Oden
Njáll ground his teeth. “No.”
“I don’t understand,” Aidan said. The youth shot Njáll a confused glance.
“Then understand this, little fool.” The voice grated like iron on a whetstone. “This cave is mine! I have marked it with the Eye! You trespass, disturb my rest, drink my water, and cut down my trees, and you have the spleen to call me your guest?”
“We … We meant no offense,” Aidan said. “We did not know this cave belonged to you.”
Still cloaked in shadow, the figure laughed once more. There was no humor in his voice. “Aye, claim ignorance and blindness, for is that not your way? Keep your Nailed God’s charity. I will trade you my hospitality for your food. Do we have a bargain?”
Njáll considered the offer. In the past, he would have simply trusted his axe to win the day and taken what he needed as spoils of battle. But those days were over. He was a man of peace, now. Perhaps this was a divine test of his patience, of the strength of his new faith? Surely he could pass a night with a surly heathen in exchange for warmth, shelter, and the blessings of the Lord. Slowly, he let his axe fall to his side and nodded. “We have. I am Njáll son of Hjálmarr. My companion, here, is Aidan of Glastonbury. We are bound for the church at Roskilde. How are you called?”
The figure moved nearer to the circle of light cast by the travelers’ fire. The thunder had faded; the rain was a soft hiss. Weak flares of lightning revealed little more than a twisted silhouette, gnarled limbs bulging with muscle and sinew. “I am called many things, Christ-Dane. Corpse-maker and Life-quencher, the Bringer of Night, the Son of the Wolf and Brother of the Serpent. I am the last of Bálegyr’s brood, called Grimnir by my people.”
Aidan backed over to the panniers and drew out some bread and cheese. A bit of pork remained, as well as an apple, wrinkled and sweet. He glanced up as he worked, curious as to what kind of man this Grimnir was. “Who … who are your people?”
But what stepped from the shadows was not human. The flickering firelight threw Grimnir’s features into sharp relief. While his face had the same construction as a human face, its planes and angles were long and sharp, vulpine in the half-light of the cave. Coarse black hair, woven with gold beads and discs of carved bone, framed eyes like splinters of red-hot iron, set deep into a craggy brow. He was broad of chest and long of arm, slouch-backed in his posture, with tattoos in cinder and woad snaking across his swarthy hide. Grimnir was clad in antiquated splendor: a sleeveless hauberk of iron rings sewn onto black leather, a kilt of poorly tanned horsehide cut from the flanks of a dappled roan, a cloak of wolf skins, and arm rings of gold, silver, and wrought iron. One black-nailed hand rested on the worn ivory hilt of a long seax.
Aidan was taken aback, but Njáll reacted as though he had been struck. He brought up his axe. No longer was he a man of peace in the service of God; rather, he was a Dane facing an ancestral enemy. “Christ’s mercies! Skrælingr, I name you! Back, child of Satan!”
“You would forget our truce, Christ-Dane?” Grimnir’s voice was full of cold menace; he shifted his weight, balancing on the balls of his feet like a predator ready to spring.
“There can be no truces with an enemy of God!”
“Bugger your god!”
But before Njáll and Grimnir could come to blows, Aidan thrust himself between the two, with no thought for his own safety. “Stop! Both of you! Is it not written that we should love the sinner though we despise the sin?”
Njáll hesitated. “This is no mere sinner, Aidan! It is not even a man! It comes from a race of traitors and oathbreakers and defilers of corpses!”
“And so? Were not your people once described in no less despicable terms? How runs the prayer, brother? It was once on the lips of every God-fearing man from Britain to Byzantium. Do you recall it?”
The stinging condemnation in Aidan’s voice dampened Njáll’s anger. “Aye. ‘Deliver us, O God, from the savage race of Northmen.’” Njáll lowered his axe, teeth grinding with the effort; though he might struggle with it every day until the End of Days, he was a man of God, now, and not some blood-mad heathen. Not any longer. When he spoke again his voice was constrained. “Thank you for reminding me. You are wise beyond your years, and a Christian without equal, brother. Forgive me, Grimnir. We are ill guests to abuse your hospitality so. Will you not join us?”
Grimnir’s narrowed eyes slid from man to youth and back again. He was plainly suspicious of them, but with an agonizing slowness he nevertheless took his hand from the hilt of his seax. “Tonight we eat, and you will sleep in peace. But, come the dawn, I might just split your miserable skull, Christ-Dane.”
Njáll picked up the plate of food and held it out to Grimnir. “Fair enough,” he replied. “If that is God’s will, so be it.”
With a fierce grin, Grimnir accepted the food and joined the two travelers by the fire.
2
The world beyond the cave had grown silent with the fullness of night. A wind moaned inland from the sea, driving a shoal of fallen leaves before it and rattling the branches of the hawthorn trees. The clouds overhead shredded to reveal the gleaming lamps of Heaven, closer and brighter now that the Ending of the World drew nigh.
Inside the cave Njáll and Aidan knelt on the cold stone floor before a small cross carved from the old spruce oar of a dragon ship. The youth led them in prayer, reciting the words by rote even as his mind dwelled on the creature whose cave they shared. Grimnir had squatted on his haunches, his hair a stringy veil from which rust-red eyes gleamed suspiciously; he sniffed at each bite as though he expected it to be poisoned. Aidan had a thousand questions for the—what had Njáll called him? skrælingr?—but all that had been forestalled when the older man declared he needed to pray before taking his rest. Grimnir had snarled and spat when Aidan brought out the cross, as though the sight of it pained him; he loudly and profanely cursed their faith as mummery and wanted no part of it. Aidan could hear him even now, relieving himself beyond the hawthorns screening the mouth of the cave and, if Aidan’s ear could be trusted, singing. Grimnir’s flinty voice filtered down, tuneless and unlovely:
Brothers shall strive and slaughter,
Sisters shall sin together;
Ill days among men:
An axe-age, a sword-age,
Shields shall be cloven;
A wind-age, a wolf-age,
Ere the world totters.
He heard Njáll mutter “Amen” and quickly added his own. The Dane stood; while Aidan carefully wrapped their carved cross and stowed it in their gear, Njáll went over and stoked the fire. He rubbed his eyes.
“That song he sings,” Aidan said, crouching by the panniers. “Do you know it?”
“Aye, it is a song the heathens sing of Ragnarok,” Njáll replied, frowning. “What my people call the end of the world.” The older man resumed his place against the cave wall, his axe beside him. Aidan passed him a blanket then set about preparing a place where he would sleep. Smoke coiled and drifted out of the fissure as Grimnir’s song faded.
The End of Days weighed heavily on Aidan’s mind. Somewhere in the world beyond, on this very night, the Antichrist stalked the earth, sowing the seeds of its destruction and drawing all things of evil nature and intent to him. In his mind, Aidan knew this to be true, for was it not written in Revelation? And did not the blessed Abbot Ælfric of Eynsham determine this year to be the Great Year, the year of the Last Judgment? Why, then, did Aidan not feel in his heart the jubilation that surely must come from the nearness of the Lord? The Christ would return by year’s end, but Aidan could not sense anything special about each day that passed. The wars had not increased in number, nor had tribulations grown more than what was each man’s lot to bear. Lands where crops had failed suffered famine while their neighbors might fill their larders and barns nigh to bursting with the bounty of the Lord. Aidan saw neither rhyme nor reason to this. He could accept the idea that perhaps the learned abbot of Eynsham was wrong in naming this as the Great Year, but sur
ely not the Revelation to John. It was infallible, was it not?
Aidan stirred from his reverie. “I did not know heathens believed in the End Times, too.”
“Aye, they do,” Njáll replied. “Though it is not like ours. They believe Ragnarok will be a time of glory and endless war, when the gods issue forth from Ásgarðr to battle the jötunn, their sworn foes. Their struggle will break the world. It is an ancient tale.”
“You know,” Aidan said after a moment, “this Grimnir reminds me of your old shipmates. He has that same godless exuberance.”
“We Danes can at least find redemption. His folk are beyond even that.”
Aidan’s brow furrowed. “Surely there is no man who is beyond redemption?”
“I told you, that thing is no man.”
“I thought so, too, when I first saw him. He looks like”—the youth struggled to find the words—“like no man I’ve ever seen, but he does have two arms, two legs, and a head as we do. He breathes as we do, eats as we do, drinks, spits, laughs and curses as we do. If we judge him on his appearance, alone, then I would concede your point. But how is he not a man? And this name you have for him, skrælingr? I’ve never heard it.”
“I expect not. It is as old as Ragnarok. But, there is a word in your tongue, ‘orcnéas.’ Have you heard that one? It describes a monster of great evil, an ogre who stalks fen and marsh, and eats the flesh of the dead. They are one and the same.”
Aidan looked at the older man as though he had gone daft. “Aye, I know that name. Orcnéas were enemies of God, children of Cain who fought long against the Almighty. Grimnir can’t be one of those! God banished them from His sight. Honestly, Njáll! What game is this? You name him something he cannot be!”
“It is no game,” Njáll replied. “You say these orcnéas strove against God and were banished? So it was with the skrælingar. My grandfather told me many times about these wolves of the North, these children of Loki, who rebelled against Odin and were cast down here, to Miðgarðr, to plague the sons of Men.”
“Banished from the sight of God?”
Njáll nodded.
“So, we will tell the monks at Roskilde that, as we journeyed, we passed a night in a cave with a creature of legend? A monster?”
The older Dane smiled, though even Aidan could see it was forced—the smile of an adult indulging a child’s whim. “You will find if you live as long as I have that even the most outlandish tales have a tiny grain of truth at their heart, and from that grain the minds of men can make fabulous pearls. When we first looked upon this cave, a part of me wondered if it might be the lair of the dragon slain by old King Bödvar of the Shield-Danes. No doubt the monks at Roskilde would laugh at me for this, since they surely believe dragons to be the bailiwick of children, skalds, and fools. But I am no addle-headed poet. I’ve seen the skull of a great wyrm—at Borghund; it was harder than stone and brimming with knifelike teeth—so they must have existed. Likewise, I’ve never laid eyes upon one of the skrælingar till now, but I have seen their bones and heard the tales of my kin, so I know this one for what he is.
“Grimnir’s folk were the bane of my people for a dozen generations and more. They raided our villages, striking at night while we slept, killing our men and our children and making off with our women and our possessions. An old chieftain named Hróarr made the Danes fight as one people, and they finally broke the skrælingar, though it cost Hróarr his life. In truth, it’s been many long years since anyone has seen one. My grandfather thought them gone from this land.”
Grimnir’s voice caught them both off guard. So quiet was he that neither man had heard his approach. “Hróarr? That old swine got what was coming to him.” He rose from a crouch, where he’d been listening to their conversation, and descended to the cave floor. He made a hissing noise and fixed Njáll with a belligerent stare. “And you … you yammer on about things beyond your reckoning, Christ-Dane. The kaunar were not born of the Sly One. Ymir is our sire and the black blood of Angrboða runs hot in our veins.”
Njáll ignored him; Aidan glanced between the two, his brow furrowed. “Forgive me,” he said after a moment, “what is kaunar?”
“To you, I am orcnéas. To the Dane, I am skrælingr. The blasted Irish would name me fomórach,” Grimnir said, then smote his breast with one black-nailed fist. “But I am kaunr! Do you understand now?”
Aidan flinched at the vehemence in Grimnir’s voice. He nodded. “And … And are there many of y-your people left?”
“Nár, I am the last.” Grimnir snatched up his cloak, wrapping the old wolf skin around his shoulders, and then sat just outside the ring of firelight with his back to the pool. His eyes gleamed like red coals. “I made the death song for old Gífr, who was my mother’s brother, back in that bastard Charles Magnus’s day. Not seen another of my kind since. When I am gone…” Grimnir trailed off.
“But…” Aidan cleared his throat. “But Charles Magnus ruled the Franks nigh upon two hundred years ago. Forgive me again, but just how old do you claim to be?”
Grimnir shrugged. “How do you reckon your age?”
Aidan ducked his head, his cheeks coloring. “I … I do not rightly know,” he replied. “The monks at Glastonbury say I was left upon their doorstep one snowy Yule. I have seen my twentieth year, to be sure. Perhaps more.”
“A foundling, eh?” Grimnir shifted his baleful gaze to Njáll. “And you, Christ-Dane?”
“I am hard upon my fiftieth year.”
“Striplings, the lot of you.” Grimnir’s nostrils flared. “I first drew breath at Orkahaugr, in the Kjolen Mountains, in the last days of the Peace of Frodi.” His lips skinned back, revealing a fierce, serrated grin. “My birth was a harbinger of strife and shield-breaking!”
“Impossible!” Aidan barked. “Our host is playing us for fools, brother. Frodi’s Peace lasted as long as our Lord Christ’s stay on this earth. That would make our friend, here, at least a thousand years old!” Aidan expected protestations from the giant Dane, scoffing laughter, something. Njáll, however, remained silent. Aidan saw not even a shadow of doubt darken his bearded visage. “You believe him?”
Grimnir leaned forward, his eyes glittering with a dangerous light. “You call me a liar?”
“A liar?” Aidan said quickly, holding up his hands to forestall Grimnir’s anger. “No. I did not mean it like that. It’s just … while I will concede you are not like us, a man descended from the loins of blessed Adam, to believe you are over a thousand years old is something else, entirely. Only Christ is immortal.”
“Man, eh?” Grimnir chuckled. Like a spring uncoiling, he settled back. “Believe what you will, little foundling. It matters nothing to me. Have you any more of that cat piss you call mead?”
Aidan handed him the near-empty flask; he watched as Grimnir drained it. Njáll leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed, one fist tight around the haft of his axe—though by the laws of hospitality he should be as safe this night as if he slept under the roof of his kin. Aidan lowered his voice. “We are bound for Roskilde, to spend what time we have left preparing for the End of Days. And to spread the message of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, to those poor souls among the Danes who yet kneel before pagan gods. Is this your home?” Aidan indicated the cave with a jerk of his head.
Grimnir stared into the fire, as though reading an omen in its crackling heart. “For the winter, aye. I came south from Skaane, seeking an old enemy, a worm who owes me weregild.”
Though on the verge of sleep, this nevertheless caught Njáll’s ear. He raised an eyelid. “Revenge is mine, the Lord says, and I will repay them in due time.”
Grimnir’s wolfish face twisted into a mask of malevolence, lips peeling back in a snarl of contempt. “Your paltry little god best keep his hands off what’s mine. Especially this one. Wretched maggot who calls himself Bjarki. Bjarki Half-Dane! May the Serpent twist his guts! He hides from me, but I will find him. And when I do—Nár! That filthy oathbreaker will pay.”
/> “Bjarki Half-Dane, eh?”
Grimnir’s eyes snapped up. “You’ve heard of him?”
Njáll shifted to a more comfortable position. “More than that. I know him. Ugly bastard, and too smart for his own good by far. Before I gave my life to Christ, I took the whale-road with Olaf Tryggve’s son. Bjarki sailed with us.”
Aidan listened as Njáll told Grimnir of the raids he had made under Olaf’s banner—the same Olaf who was now Norway’s king. For years, Red Njáll had slaughtered, plundered, and traded from Frisia to the Hebrides and down to the coast of Wessex in England, where he sacked the rich town of Wareham and put its lord, Prince Eothred, to the sword. This Bjarki, Aidan heard, fought alongside them until the Scilly Isles, off the coast of Cornwall.
“That’s where Olaf broke with the Old Ways and became a Christian,” Njáll said. “Now, Bjarki thought of himself as our goði, our priest, and he took Olaf’s conversion hard. They’d sworn a pact to Odin. Bjarki claimed Olaf broke it when he repudiated the Allfather. The rest of us tried to broker peace between them. But, harsh words often lead to harsher blows. Bjarki came against Olaf one morning before sunrise and dealt him a grievous wound before we could drive him off. He escaped by the skin of his teeth—him and a small crew. That was…” The Dane did a quick sum on his fingers. “… four, maybe five years back, and he’s not been seen in the North since, not with King Olaf nursing a grudge.” Njáll yawned. “I left the whale-road last year, after the sack of Exeter, and became a Christian, myself. As far as I know, Bjarki still haunts the waters off the English coast, somewhere between the tip of Cornwall and the mouth of the Thames.”
“He does, eh?” Grimnir spat into the fire. “I’ll find him.” He glanced sharply at Aidan, red eyes boring into him. “You’re English. You know the lay of the land and speak the tongue better than I do. You come with me.”
Aidan’s face hardened at the mention of returning to his native land; he met Grimnir’s gaze with blue eyes as cold and bitter as hoarfrost. “A Jew will sit on Saint Peter’s throne before ever I touch English soil, again. Perhaps a guide can be found for you in Roskilde.”
