by Scott Oden
It sat on a platform made of earth and stone: a wooden temple that hearkened back to the harsh land of their ancestors, a land of bleak mountains and wolf-haunted forests. Sharp roof peaks wreathed in sacrificial smoke jutted into the brightening sky, and on every timber stave, every post, and every lintel were intricate carvings made by a generation of master craftsmen—Ragnarok depicted in weathered oak, the Æsir and their jötunn adversaries framed by writhing brambles, forever locked in an apocalyptic embrace.
The temple’s heavy doors stood ajar, and beyond its scrimshaw threshold lay a world of smoke and shadow, a world that reeked of spilled blood and bowel, ancient wood and incense. Here, cruelly bound upon the altar, a Frankish youth captured in a raid on his homeland drew a final, racking breath; the hands of a Dane no older than he drew tight the silken cord that throttled him. Before his death rattle ceased, a shadow fell over the altar: a one-eyed priest, gray-bearded and fey. Chanting, he plunged the blackened iron blade of a sacrificial dagger into the dying youth’s breast and ripped him open. A last violent paroxysm of the lad’s heart caused a spray of arterial blood to issue from his lips. And then … perfect stillness as his spirit’s eyes opened on the grim afterlife.
With fanatical intensity, the priest thrust his arm deep into that butchered torso. Practiced fingers found the liver and tore it free of its mortal housing; he drew it forth and looked at it, peering closely at its lobes and its coloration before tossing it into a broad bowl of hammered copper, where it struck with a wet squelch.
“What say the omens, Ágautr?” A voice issued from the shadows, hollow and heavy with a weariness that transcended flesh. The priest, Ágautr, raised his head and scowled.
“They say much, Draugen. Where is your master?”
A shadow stepped forth, gaunt and corpse-pale, his once-red beard gone to ash. His single eye peered out from beneath the hood of a cloak the color of charred wood. The man called Draugen wore blackened mail, leggings of black leather, and sported arm rings of silver and twisted iron. “He is about his business, as you should be about yours. What do you see?”
Lip curling in disdain, Ágautr reached in and ripped the heart from the dead Frank’s corpse. He brandished it in the thin light. “Odin’s weather! The war reek rises from the land! Monstrous shadows, red-handed and cruel, gather like old men around the corpse fires!”
“I see as much with one eye, priest!” Draugen said.
With both blood-slimed hands, Ágautr drew forth loops of intestine. He leaned over the viscera, frowning; whatever he saw in those glistening ropes drew from him a hiss of fury. “Your master’s enemies grow ever bolder! ’Ware the Gael who hides behind the mask of friendship, for he is the serpent who would strike unawares!”
Draugen nodded. “And the coming battle, how will it fall?”
Ágautr stepped away from the disemboweled corpse, “I cannot see. The Norns weave the fate of us all, and they hide the end of things from my sight. Tell him what I have said. ’Ware the Gael—”
“Who hides behind a mask of friendship, you say? You useless old crow, they all wear that mask!” And like a spirit, the man called Draugen faded into the shadows, the echo of his footsteps a sonorous dirge.
8
Morning sunlight slanted through narrow windows high in the walls of Dubhlinn’s great hall, casting the warmth of an early spring over a confrontation that had become colder than winter’s ice. From the shadows under the jutting gallery, Bjarki Half-Dane observed the lords of Dubhlinn and Leinster meeting with a deputation of Irish chiefs.
Beneath the raven banners of the House of Ivar, Sitric Olaf’s son sat upon the edge of his throne, flanked by a dozen Norse giants in heavy mail bearing long, glittering spears and thick shields. On his right, in a place of honor, King Maelmorda of Leinster reclined on a brocaded divan, bleary-eyed and drinking Greek wine from a gold-chased bowl. Kormlada sat beside him, legs drawn up beneath her like a cat. She wore a gown of fine scarlet linen, almost sheer and slit brazenly to midthigh, accented by a torque of woven gold and silver wire, capped by snarling wolves—one holding a pearl in its jaws and the other a bead of carved amber; gold clusters dangled from the lobes of her ears. She sipped wine from a silver goblet and gazed with studied indifference upon the men arrayed before them. Standing in knots of twos and threes were the twelve chiefs of the fianna of Leinster—the clannish war bands that formed the spine of Maelmorda’s army. They watched their king, to a man stiff-backed and scowling.
Bjarki felt a presence at his back; he turned his head and beheld the somber visage of Draugen. “Let me guess,” Half-Dane hissed, “Ágautr sees more blood and thunder?”
Draugen—who had gone by the name Red Njáll son of Hjálmarr before his death some fifteen years ago on the road to Roskilde—nodded. “And, he says you should beware the Gael.”
Bjarki chuckled. “He said I should beware you, too, if you recall.” Draugen only grunted at this. And so Ágautr had warned him, fourteen years earlier, when Njáll had sought Bjarki out on the Isle of Wight. He was King Olaf’s man, the old priest had said, jabbing an accusing finger at Njáll’s chest. Why should he now serve you? And you would trust this treacherous son of Hjálmarr when last I recall he was panting for your blood on the beach at Scilly?
But the man who called himself Draugen—who claimed he had trod the dank road to Helheimr and returned—had whispered one word into Half-Dane’s ear; with that one word all doubt vanished. Bjarki Half-Dane knew that Draugen, alone of all men, would never betray him.
“Which Gael?” Half-Dane asked as the tallest of the Irishmen, a rawboned fellow in a ragged green and yellow cloak, his red-gold hair braided down his back, stepped forward. Bjarki glared at the man’s face, sun-darkened and blunt; long bristling mustaches emphasized the fierce jut of his jaw.
“The old charlatan didn’t say.”
“Stand ready, then,” Bjarki hissed. “We may have to kill them all.”
The tall Irishman sketched a perfunctory bow. “The lads have elected me to speak for them.”
“And who are you?” Sitric replied.
“My king knows me.”
“Aye,” Maelmorda said, after a moment. “Partha, you are, chief of the warriors of Cluain Mhór. A village of shepherds, if I recall, who were ever as rocks in my father’s sandal.” There was no disguising the contempt in the king of Leinster’s voice. “What do you want? Why have you roused these others and dragged me from my rest at this unholy hour?”
“We want a king worthy of our respect,” the chief, Partha, replied, answering Maelmorda’s truculence with his own. “But you are what the Almighty has given us. Thus, we’ve come to parley.”
The king of Leinster’s gaze turned to ice. “Tread carefully, shepherd.”
“Parley?” Kormlada said. “Are we enemies, Partha of Cluain Mhór? Do you have a grievance? Have my brother or I mistreated you in some manner? Speak plain, man!”
“Aye, I will speak plain, Witch of Dubhlinn!” Partha replied. “Word came to us last night: the vale of An Bhearú burns! Our homes are destroyed, our women and children murdered, shamed and enslaved, our flocks slaughtered, and for what? So your son can grow richer?” He turned to Maelmorda. “Lead us away from here, son of Murchada! Be the king we can respect! Let us face the Munstermen on our own terms!”
Maelmorda laughed. Wine sloshed from his bowl as he used it to gesture at the warrior. “You would have me flee from my own rebellion?”
“We would have you protect what is yours!” Partha answered with heat. The other chiefs muttered assent, nodding. Partha smoothed his mustaches with one scarred knuckle. “The fianna of Leinster serve its king, and none other! Are you that king, Maelmorda mac Murchada, or are you but a silk-clad outlaw sporting a stolen crown?”
Maelmorda staggered to his feet, slinging the bowl from his hand in fury. The vessel struck the stone flags near Partha with a tremendous clang, spattering him with wine lees; to his credit the tall Irishman didn’t so much as flinch.
“Your tongue runs roughshod over your good sense, shepherd! I should have you flogged, you insolent wretch! You and your traitorous cronies! Suffering Christ—!”
“Sit down, brother, before you fall down,” Kormlada said.
“Aye.” Bjarki’s sibilant voice cut through Maelmorda’s tirade like a knife. “Listen to your sister.” Silence as thick as a death shroud descended on the great hall; the king of Leinster did not even put up a front—he dropped back onto his divan and motioned for a servant to bring more wine. The eyes of the Irish chiefs fastened on Half-Dane, who emerged from the gloom beneath the gallery. Draugen followed him like an iron-shod specter. “Partha of Cluain Mhór,” Half-Dane said, moving through the knots of Irishmen. “How often, when your king raised the war banners, have you crossed into Munster to raid for cattle? How often have you driven deep into that miserable wretch Mac Cennétig’s lands to plunder villages? How many women have you shamed, stolen, and killed? How many children have you left for the crows, Partha of Cluain Mhór?”
Partha shrugged. The other chiefs muttered among themselves.
“More times than you can count?” Bjarki pressed.
“Aye,” Partha replied. “What of it?”
Bjarki stopped at the foot of the royal dais and turned to face the assembled chiefs, his voice a bloodcurdling hiss. “Did Mac Cennétig set aside his well-wrought plans and ride out to avenge those drab-ankled whores and their brats from those burned-out little shitholes no one’s heard of, and fewer care about? No? And why is that, Partha of Cluain Mhór?”
Partha’s jaw clenched and unclenched. “He knew—”
“Speak up, damn your eyes!” Bjarki roared.
“He knew what he was about,” Partha said grudgingly. “We were goading him, and he knew it.”
“We were goading him,” Half-Dane mocked. “And he knew it! Well, God’s teeth, man! It’s a stroke of good fortune you were here to school us on strategy! Otherwise, we might have cast aside our plans—plans I’ve laid for half your miserable life!—and gone off to avenge those whores and brats you left behind, in that shithole you call a village!” Bjarki turned his back on Partha in a gesture of utter contempt.
The Irish chief’s face grew black with rage. Steel sang on leather as he whipped a knife from his belt and lunged at Half-Dane. The snarling Partha was but a step away from burying his blade in Bjarki’s spine when Draugen’s scarred fist tangled in the red-gold braids that swung from the man’s scalp. Ever the ghost in Half-Dane’s shadow, Draugen hauled Partha back by his hair and slung the Irishman to the ground. His knife clattered away; Partha slid across the rough flagstones and came to rest in a dazed heap at the feet of his comrades. A dozen Irishmen glared murderously at the giant Dane and his master.
Draugen stepped toward them, his cloak fluttering aside, battle madness blazing forth from his one eye; he drew a pair of axes from the small of his back, short and oak-hafted, their bearded blades rune-etched with spells of doom. “If you want to kill a man,” he growled, “draw steel and look him in the eye.”
Partha struggled to his feet; the two kings, Sitric and Maelmorda, exchanged looks, apprehension writ upon their brows—they could smell a slaughter on the morning breeze. Kormlada gave a predatory smile as Bjarki Half-Dane mounted the dais to stand between the rulers of Dubhlinn and Leinster before turning to face the knot of Irishmen.
“So what will it be, Partha of Cluain Mhór? Will you break your oath to your king? Will you lead your rogues out to chase some pack of Munster dogs through the hills and hollows of Leinster just to avenge a village? Or will you cleave to my plan and treble your holdings when we put our enemies to the sword?”
Partha drew himself up to his full height, eyes clouded with rage. “You piss-colored bastard! You’ve no clan, no title, and still you think you can give orders to the fianna of Ériu? Crawl back under whatever rock spawned you, Half-Dane, and keep your crooked nose out of business that doesn’t concern—”
“Draugen,” Bjarki hissed.
Even as the name left Half-Dane’s lips, Draugen was in motion, snapping his right arm back and forward in one smooth stroke. The axe in that hand flew from his fingers, flashed through a bar of sunlight, and struck Partha in the juncture of his neck and right shoulder. The blade bit deep; the Irish chief staggered, clawing at the axe haft as bright arterial blood pumped from the wound. Partha dropped to one knee, then toppled onto his side, falling into an ever-expanding pool of crimson.
“Who speaks for you, now?” Bjarki said. “Will you break your oaths to your king or will you cleave to my plan?”
The other chiefs muttered to one another as Partha gave a wet, rattling sigh and lay still; they shot dark looks at the Danes, and at their king, but after a moment a sullen, black-haired chief stepped forward.
“Othna the Black,” Kormlada said, acknowledging the man with a nod. “You were ever a voice of reason.”
Othna gave her a cursory bow. “You’re too kind, lady. I will speak for the chiefs of the fianna of Leinster. We will honor our oaths to our king, and do what he thinks is best.”
Bjarki turned to Maelmorda. “And what does he think is best, eh?”
The king of Leinster glanced sidelong at Half-Dane and then stood on unsteady legs. “My fierce hawks of war!” he said, gesturing broadly—too broadly for a man who was sober. “We will cleave to our original plan. We will crush our enemies here, before the walls of Dubhlinn, and drive them before us in defeat! And when the time is right, we will descend upon Mac Cennétig’s lands and seize it all, from Thomond to the Rock of Cashel!”
The chiefs did not cheer with exuberance at their king’s proclamation, but rather met it with a mix of dour acceptance and humorless laughter. Othna the Black knelt and rolled the slain Partha onto his back; he wrenched the axe free of the bloodstained corpse and tossed it at Draugen’s feet with a muttered curse. The clang of steel on stone was like a death knell, calling the ravens to the banquet.
Nothing more was said as slaves hurried in; some bore a litter, others carried pails of water and sponges to clean the flagstones. In grim silence, the Irish chiefs lifted their slain comrade onto the litter, hoisted him on their shoulders, and bore him from the throne room. The doors groaned shut after they passed the threshold.
Sitric rose from his throne; with a gesture, he sent his Norse guard away. “These men are supposed to be our allies,” he said. “Will the men of Cluain Mhór seek revenge?”
Draugen tucked one axe into the belt at his back, then bent and retrieved the other. Blood filled the deeply etched runes, which proclaimed the doom of Grimnir son of Bálegyr. He wiped it clean on a slave’s trembling back. “Not if we strike first. We could take them as they sleep…”
“Leave them to me,” Kormlada said.
Bjarki glanced sidelong at her. “To you?”
“To me,” she replied. “If Othna cannot rein them in, then I will sing the men of Cluain Mhór a song, a soft ballad of madness and despair.”
Half-Dane laughed. Maelmorda, though, glared into the depths of his wine. “Let Draugen grant them a clean death, if it comes to it. They’ve earned that, at least.”
Bjarki Half-Dane had a scathing reply ready, but the sudden cr-r-ruck of a raven drew his gaze upward, away from the wine-besotted king of Leinster. The raucous cry echoed; through a narrow window came the coal-black form of ancient Cruach. He circled above their heads, through light and shadow, drifting lower and lower; Kormlada swiftly gained her feet and held forth her arm, an eerie whistle escaping her lips.
Cruach ignored her.
Sitric backed away as the great bird alighted on the arm of his throne. He shook his feathers, his unblinking gaze fixed on Bjarki Half-Dane. Red eyes met black; Bjarki straightened, nostrils flaring. “Speak, old crow! Speak if you have news!”
And Cruach did.
Comes from the East, | Bálegyr’s issue,
To the halls where dwells | Grendel’s bastard,
To the Black Pool | to claim his we
regild.
Not gleaming arm-rings | nor mountains of gold,
But the blood of Half-Dane | spilled in Odin’s weather.
Cruach shook and stretched his wings like a creature coming awake; glancing about, he spotted Kormlada and took to wing, fluttering over to her proffered arm. She stroked the raven’s neck, crooning softly. Maelmorda laughed. “Has your crow learned to spit doggerel, sister, or is this some manner of prophecy?”
“Aye,” Sitric said. “What does it mean, Mother?”
Kormlada looked askance at Bjarki. “Only he for whom the prophecy is meant can—”
“It’s not a prophecy,” Draugen cut her off. He turned to Bjarki, a grim smile twisting his gaunt features. “It’s the fulfillment of a promise. He comes.”
A range of emotions played across Half-Dane’s visage in the span of a single breath. His eyebrows rose in disbelief; a glimmer of fear shone from deep within—honest atavistic terror—but then a sheet of anger slammed down like one of Draugen’s axes, suffusing his face with rage and narrowing his eyes to glittering embers.
“After all these years.” Draugen nodded, as though trying to convince himself more than anyone else. “He comes, at last.”
“Pah!” Bjarki spat. “Time to earn your keep, then!”
Draugen’s smile widened to a fierce grin. He spun and stalked from the throne room even as Half-Dane whirled and headed for the stairs leading up to the gallery and Cuarán’s Tower.
Oblivious, or merely incurious, Maelmorda returned to his drinking. Sitric and Kormlada, however, exchanged puzzled looks. With a soft murmur of love, she sent Cruach aloft and followed in Half-Dane’s wake.
