Frostborn

by Lou Anders

  Ori shrugged. “I’ve had enough of Ymirian company to last me until the spring. Probably longer. When I have my own farm, I’ll dispense with this silly gathering.”

  Karn frowned, though he realized most of Norrøngard felt just as Ori did. Korlundr was the exception. Norrønir were generally suspicious of anyone who wasn’t a Norrønur.

  “I suppose you are looking for your little giantess?” said Ori.

  “I thought I should say goodbye.”

  Ori pursed his lips. “I suppose I should tell you …”

  “Tell me what?”

  Ori sighed, as though he was going against his principles for Karn’s sake.

  “Thianna asked me to tell you to meet her at the barrow mound. She wanted some time alone with you on your last night.”

  “Why wouldn’t she just wait for me to go with her?” he asked.

  Ori gave Karn a long look down his nose in a way that made Karn feel like he was being naive.

  “I suppose I can go with you, just to make sure you get through the woods safely at night. I won’t stick around, of course, just see you there and off.”

  “Thanks,” said Karn, who didn’t like the idea of walking alone through the dark woods.

  “Oh, don’t thank me,” said Uncle Ori. “I’m just doing what I have to do.”

  There was no sign of Thianna when Karn and Ori emerged into the moonslit glade. Both Manna’s moon and her smaller sister were shining brightly. In the pale light, the standing stones were rendered in bright detail. Karn steeled himself and stepped from the trees.

  “Where is she?”

  Ori looked around.

  “Maybe she’s relieving herself in the woods,” he said indelicately. “But she could be behind one of the runestones. Let’s go check.” With that, he walked boldly forward, heading toward the central mound.

  They climbed the hill, passing through the ring of stones. Karn didn’t see any sign of Thianna, though there were plenty of places where even someone of her size could be hiding. The thought wasn’t a comforting one.

  “Are you sure she’s here?” he asked.

  “Would I lie to you?”

  Karn wasn’t sure how to answer. Lately, he’d begun to suspect that his uncle might cheat at Thrones and Bones. Cheating seemed to be a form of lying, but he kept his opinion to himself.

  Ori walked right down the ramp to the doorway to Helltoppr’s Barrow. Then he turned to face Karn.

  “Have you ever heard what they say about barrow magic?”

  “I think they say a lot,” said Karn, remembering the nonsense that Pofnir had spouted earlier.

  “I’m sure they do,” replied his uncle. “But here’s one you won’t have heard. Tap three times on a corpse door with a named blade and a wish will be granted.”

  “A named blade?” asked Karn, who hadn’t followed his uncle down the ramp.

  “You know. A sword from the songs.”

  Karn did know. The Norrønir were forever naming their favorite weapons. The songs were full of axes and swords and spears with supposedly magical properties.

  “You could make a wish now while we wait,” his uncle continued.

  “Right,” Karn said, chuckling uncomfortably. “Like I have a named sword.”

  “I don’t suppose you do,” his uncle said coolly. “Good thing I have one here. Come and have a look.”

  Karn hesitated. He really was as close as he wanted to be to the barrow, and Ori was behaving strangely. As he dithered, he thought he felt eyes on his back and turned around. There was no one there. Just the stillness of the stones. His uncle watched him with a bemused expression. He was starting to feel exposed up on the hill alone, so he mustered his courage and walked down the ramp to join Ori.

  “So show me,” he said.

  Ori grinned and drew back his cloak. There was a sword hanging at his side. Ori moved to draw it from its wooden scabbard. Karn recognized it by the hilt even before its blade was free.

  “That’s Whitestorm,” he said in shock. Karn had never seen it out of his father’s possession.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to walk through the woods at night without protection, was I?”

  “You have your own weapon,” said Karn accusingly. Theft was a serious crime in Norrøgard; theft from one’s own folk, doubly so.

  “An ax,” said Ori. “And we both know I don’t have the build to put much power behind it. No, what I really need is a sword. Big brother won’t mind my borrowing it. Relax, nephew. It will be back before he knows it. And now we have a named blade so you can make your wish.”

  Karn wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t want to say so. Instead, he tried a different approach.

  “I don’t even know what I’d wish for.”

  “Really?” When Karn shook his head, Ori said, “Oh, I think we both know that’s not true.”

  “Uncle?”

  “In a funny way, I guess you’re too much like me. We’re both trapped by the accidents of our birth, aren’t we, boy? If you had an older brother, like I do, you could come and go as you please. You wouldn’t have to bear the burden that your father has laid on you. He never asked you if you wanted to be hauld of his farm. And I imagine he doesn’t listen when you try to tell him how you feel.”

  Karn nodded, remembering his conversation with his father in the streets of Bense.

  “It’s hard to talk to him sometimes.”

  “Of course,” Ori said. “It isn’t fair. Such a responsibility. Such a chore for someone who can lift his head to the horizon and has the imagination to wonder what’s beyond it. Wouldn’t you like to see for yourself?”

  “Like that’s going to happen.”

  “Worth a shot, isn’t it?” The boy made no move to take the sword. “Go on,” said Ori. “It’s already here. You’re here. If we’re going to get in trouble for swiping Korlundr’s sword, we may as well do something with it. Take the sword, tap it three times, and let’s see if any wishes get granted.”

  “This is foolish.”

  “Agreed,” said Ori, “so what are you waiting for? There’s a whole wide world beyond Norrøngard. Or do you want to be nothing but a farmer your entire life?”

  His entire life. That was the crux of it. Karn nodded, giving in. He reached for the sword. Ori held it toward him point first, then realized what he was doing. He sheathed and reversed the blade so that Karn could take the hilt. As Karn’s hands closed on the leather-wrapped grip, Ori held on to it for a moment.

  “Remember, you must knock three times.”

  Karn nodded, and Ori let the blade go. His uncle stepped aside so that he could approach the corpse door.

  “Three times?” said Karn. Ori didn’t answer. Behind him, Karn heard his uncle walking back up the ramp.

  “Uncle Ori?” he asked.

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” his uncle replied. “You have to be alone for the magic to work. No good if I’m there with you. But don’t worry, I won’t be far.”

  Ori disappeared around the hill. A chill ran up Karn’s spine. It was dark, and it was cold. Karn wanted to run, to chase after Ori in the dark. But he did no such thing. To do so was to admit that he was afraid. Worse, it was to accept that a farmer was all he’d ever be. He steeled himself and turned to face the corpse door. The eerie green foxfire seemed to play across the stone. Better to get this over with quick, thought Karn.

  “I wish I didn’t have to be a hauld,” said Karn. “I wish I could go far away.”

  Then he drew Whitestorm—the sword was surprisingly light in his hands for such a long blade—and knocked its point against the stone. Once—the sound of metal on stone rang in the air—twice, three times.

  Nothing happened.

  Doubtless his uncle was having a good laugh at his expense just down the hill from him now. Maybe Thianna was even with him, the two of them playing a joke on the farm boy.

  Karn could hear his own breathing, heavier than he wished it was. Then he heard something else.

  Ther
e was a scraping sound, like sand grinding on stone. Flakes of dust crumbled and fell from the corpse door. As he watched with mounting dread, the door split into widening cracks, the unearthly light shining through the gaps.

  The corpse door broke into pieces and tumbled to the ground. Karn found himself standing before a gaping entrance, a tunnel leading into the barrow. It was lit up with foxfire, the walls of earth glowing green.

  “Don’t just stand there, boy.” The voice was unnatural, dry, raspy. “Come in.”

  Ori paused at the edge of the forest. He arranged his clothing to look more disheveled. Then he slapped his own face to give it a nice, red flush. Lastly, he drew in a deep breath.

  “Help!” he screamed, racing from the forest. “Korlundr, help!”

  Ori raced up the hill toward his brother’s tent, pumping his legs as hard as he could.

  “Help!” he cried again, putting as much desperation into it as he could stomach. Korlundr emerged from his tent, blinking at him in confusion.

  “What’s going on?” Korlundr asked.

  “Karn is in trouble!” Ori yelled.

  “Karn? What? Where?” the big man demanded.

  “In the woods,” Ori blurted. “Trouble. Come.” He turned and ran down the hill as if someone’s life depended on it. Someone’s does, he thought.

  “My sword—” Korlundr began.

  “Karn has it,” Ori said.

  “Karn?”

  “Come quickly!” Ori shouted.

  Behind him Korlundr called out.

  “What is happening with Karn? What trouble is he in? Tell me, brother.”

  “Don’t worry, brother!” Ori called without turning or stopping, knowing his twin would follow regardless. This really was too easy. “Now that you’re here, it will all be over soon.”

  Karn stood frozen, gazing down the tunnel into the barrow. The balefire flickered on the earth walls. But the slope of the tunnel kept him from seeing inside the chamber.

  Karn took a step into the dark. He held the sword, Whitestorm, out before him and crept slowly along. The soil beneath his feet was damp and gave under his boots. The tunnel smelled of dirt, mold, and the crawling things that live beneath the earth. But overwhelming all these smells was a rich, sweet, cloying scent. It was the stench of rot and decay. The smell grew stronger as the light grew brighter. Karn felt queasy, but he pressed on. He had to know what was inside. And then he did.

  The chamber was round and low-ceilinged. The floor was of dirt, like the tunnel, but the walls were lined with stones, all carved elaborately with runes. There was treasure everywhere. The Norrønir always buried their dead with their prized possessions and those practical items—cooking utensils and favored weapons—that they might need to take down with them to the afterlife in Neth’s caves, but Karn could tell that this grave was something special. This was a jarl’s grave, a dragonship captain’s grave, a grave of a very powerful and greedy man.

  Swords and axes and shields and spears and armor. Ornately carved cups and fancy dishes. Jewelry. Drinking horns. Statuary, some of it foreign. Clothing. Furs. Knives. Cooking utensils. Even a gleaming, golden set of Thrones and Bones.

  Karn’s eyes only lingered on the treasures for a moment before something else caught his attention. There were real bones piled on a real throne.

  On an imposing stone chair, a skeleton sat ramrod straight. It was still outfitted in what once must have been fine-quality armor, now shabby and dented. The leathers that it wore were rotting and ragged. The helm on its head tarnished. The great ax by its side rusting. Bits of gray beard still clung to its jaw like stringy cobwebs.

  But that wasn’t the worst thing. No. The worst thing was this: Ghostly green balefires lit the chamber—but those ghostly green balefires originated in the sockets of its eyes.

  “Hu, hu, hu.” The sound was like a gust of wind pushing through dead leaves. It echoed around the chamber. The grinning skull was laughing. The skull lifted to face him.

  “I swear, the challengers are getting younger and younger these days. How old are you, boy? Ten? Eleven?”

  Bony fingers moved to grip the armrests of the throne. Karn stood, mouth agape, face to face with a creature out of legend. An After Walker. A draug.

  “Well?” said the undead creature. Karn swallowed.

  “Twelve,” he said.

  “A shame,” said the draug. With an unnerving creak of bone, skeletal arms levered the corpse up to its feet. One hand casually reached down to grip the handle of the great ax that rested beside the throne. Knucklebones cracked as the fingers tightened on the shaft. “Not much of a talker, are you? Well then, let’s get this over with.”

  “What are you doing?” said Karn.

  “What am I doing? I’m Helltoppr.” The draug leaned forward, as if the flames in its sockets were taking a better look. “Didn’t you hear the legend? Don’t you know the song? ‘For if you stand, you’ll surely fall; and if you fall, stand you will for now and all.’ That not ring any bells?”

  “That was real?” asked Karn, remembering his dream but dumbstruck by talking to a corpse.

  “Of course it was real. I was betrayed and murdered one hundred and forty-five years ago. And men—boys now, I see—have been breaking into my barrow to challenge me for my treasure ever since.” Helltoppr hefted his ax and swung it lazily around to smack the shaft against his other palm, his fingers shifting into a strong, two-handed grip.

  “I see you have brought your own weapon. Otherwise, the rules say you could choose one from among all of mine. It’s just as well. I don’t like other people touching my stuff.”

  “I—I don’t want…,” Karn stammered. “I’m not here to challenge—”

  “Nonsense,” said the draug. He jerked his head to the side in what looked like an imitation of spitting. “You knocked three times. You entered my chamber, weapon drawn in challenge. Now we fight. If you win, you can choose from among my hoard. If I win, well, you know what the song says.”

  “What the song—?” said Karn, backing away rapidly from the corpse striding toward him. “No. No, I was told you’d grant a wish.”

  “A wish?” said Helltoppr, still barreling down on Karn. “Oh, a wish will be granted, boy, make no mistake. But what in Neth’s name made you think it would be yours? Now, be a good boy. Stand still, and let’s get on with this.”

  Helltoppr raised his ax, preparing for a swing. Karn didn’t wait to see the blade fall. He turned and ran.

  The Runestone

  Karn burst up out of the barrow and into the open air. Still, he was a long way from safe. He could hear the After Walker trudging along behind him. He ran toward the ring of standing stones.

  Then a shadow detached itself from the nearest runestone. Cold, fleshless hands reached out for him. Karn skidded to a stop. For a moment, he thought that Helltoppr had somehow managed to outflank him, but then he saw it. This draug was smaller. Also, its skin was a deep maroon color, darker than the blue-gray of the undead Jarl. This was another draug, not Helltoppr at all. Something from one of the three smaller barrows.

  The desiccated lips pulled taut in a nasty smirk.

  “The name’s Snorgil, in case you’re wondering,” it said. “At your humble service.”

  “Th-thank you, n-no,” Karn sputtered. He turned and bolted away from the creature, only to see a second figure leap from behind another stone.

  “And that be my good friend Rifa,” Snorgil said. The new After Walker held a bony hand to its chest and executed a mock bow.

  “Your service,” the one called Rifa said.

  Karn heard a footfall behind him and realized that Helltoppr had emerged from his barrow and was walking down the hill. He was going to be surrounded if he didn’t act fast. Still, Karn didn’t look back.

  He waited for Rifa to come closer, then he feinted to the left, and when the draug reached for him, he bolted to the right instead.

  “Don’t be like that,” Rifa complained.

  Beh
ind him, he heard Snorgil laughing.

  “Oh, he’s a slippery one, he is,” Snorgil roared. “Gave you the slip, did he, Rifa?”

  “Shut your mouth,” said Rifa. “Your teeth fall out when you flap your gums, you know.”

  “Shut your own,” said Snorgil. “You’ve less teeth left than I do. Anyway, loosen up. You’re the stiffest stiff I know, you are.”

  Karn took the opportunity created by their bickering to dart for a space between runestones, but a third undead After Walker reared up to block his path.

  “Oooooooo,” hooted Snorgil. “Seems you’ve met the last of our little band. Visgil, say hello to young Karn Korlundsson, will you?”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” croaked Visgil from his rotting mouth. Karn saw this one had very few teeth indeed. “Truly it is.”

  They had Karn surrounded and were closing in. He had four opponents. But the playing field had over a dozen obstructions. If there was one thing Karn knew, it was how to use the layout of a board against an opponent.

  He took off running, heading straight for Rifa, then twisting at the last minute. Karn zigzagged in and out of the runestones. He was outnumbered. Every time he tried to get off the hill, one of them would appear to block his path. But while he stayed among the stones, he could twist in ways that kept them crashing into each other and the rocks. And he was learning. The draug weren’t very coordinated, and there were limits on Helltoppr’s movement. Anytime he approached the ship shape marked by the runestones, he winced and fell back. The ship of stones defined the boundaries of his domain. He scowled when he saw Karn had noticed.

  Despite this disadvantage, Karn knew he wasn’t going to elude the four draug for much longer. He was tiring and they didn’t seem to be.

  And then he slipped on some loose earth and went over, face planted in the ground. He scrambled immediately to his feet, spitting out dried grass, only to see that the draug had surrounded him on four sides.

  “Enough running, boy,” said Helltoppr. “Raise that blade and we’ll get this over with.”

  “I don’t want to fight you,” said Karn. It sounded pathetic, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He was desperate, and it was true.